


The Wish You Make

by tellmesomethinglove



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:56:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 116,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellmesomethinglove/pseuds/tellmesomethinglove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan wanted the fairytale. She wanted overwrought dialogue and kisses in the rain and public declarations of devotion. She wanted Darcy telling Elizabeth, "You have bewitched me, body and soul." She wanted Westley disguising his love in the phrase, "As you wish." But when the fairytale comes for her, all Emma wants is the life she had before she wished upon a star</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma Swan was no stranger to a challenge.  Even without a flame, the small blue candle taunted her.  It mocked the little lost girl whose wishes had run out.  But she wasn’t about to be bested by a star-shaped clump of wax.

Reaching for a match, she lit the wick and watched it burn with more satisfaction than was probably sane.

The next part—the closing her eyes and willing her desires to some invisible entity—was always the trickiest.  What did normal twenty-seven year olds want that she didn’t already have?  She really had no complaints in the way of creature comforts—she had a car and a job and an apartment all to herself.

The flame flickered, as though it could read Emma’s mind and it knew her to be a liar.  It stirred scenes from the books she’d been reading and the ones that’d remained with her long after she’d set them back on the shelf.  Each of them had one thing in common, something Emma wasn’t sure existed in the non-fiction world.  And if it did, surely it skipped over people like her.

But it was her birthday—what better time to believe in the impossible?  Even just for the time it took to breathe in and then out.

She leaned across the counter on both arms and closed her eyes.

She thought of all the wishes she’d never shared.  The ones she’d kept locked away where no one would find them.

She thought of Mr. Darcy’s confession to Elizabeth Bennet and of Westley’s undying devotion to Buttercup.  She thought of Snow White and her prince and True Love’s Kiss.

More than any of these, she thought of what her own happy ending might be.  Would it mirror the books she’d read or the movies she’d watched?  Or would it be the light in a child’s eyes when his mother came home?

Emma took a deep breath and exhaled, the words _I wish_ echoing as a whisper across her heart.

 

—

 

She surrendered to the alarm’s seventh attempt at stirring her from sleep, feeling around blindly for her phone.  She was tempted to hit _snooze_ just once more, but as the screen burned spots into her eyes, she opted in favor of being a responsible adult.

She sat up with a groan, forcing her legs over the edge of the couch, and longed for the juvenile innocence that convinced children that being grownup was all late nights and slumber parties and dessert for every meal, and rules?  What rules?  There’d been no mention of aching muscles or exhaustion or dependence on a caffeinated beverage just to function.

Speaking of children, she’d fallen asleep with the TV set to a channel that started playing cartoons before sunrise, and it was much too early for Peter Pan’s squawky little voice.

She’d developed the habit of reading herself to sleep and had started the month on a classic literature binge, but as her birthday drew nearer—like a phantom on the horizon, unsettling and unavoidable—the more she found her tastes leaning toward the romantic, with _Pride and Prejudice_ being the latest to demonstrate just how lackluster her personal life really was.

She’d also developed the habit of leaving the TV on while reading or washing dishes or heating up the day’s meals in the microwave.  It was a comfort, an illusion that spoke of another person’s presence in the apartment.  It was a lie that made her feel less alone.

She switched it off and her living room was swallowed by darkness.  She cut a course for the bedroom, rubbing her eyes as she went, and cursing when she kicked the end table.  Again.  It wasn’t so new that she should’ve been tripping over it every day.  Maybe she wouldn’t if she were home more, but that would’ve required a normal job with normal hours and normal clients.  And one thing Emma had never been was normal.

“You all right there, Swan?”

She didn’t scream, didn’t jump—she reached across the end table and under her pillow for the firearm that’d slept the night with her.  Aiming in the direction of the intruder’s voice, she fired.  The shot was followed by silence, broken only by Emma’s panicked breathing.

The kitchen light flicked on, and standing at its threshold was a man with dark hair and blue eyes, wearing a black leather jacket and a patient grin.

“I wish I could say that was the first time that’s happened.”

“Next time I won’t miss.”  Emma lined up a second shot, not looking to simply wound.  “Who the hell are you and how’d you get in my apartment?”

“The name’s Killian Jones, and I’ve come to deliver your happy ending.”


	2. Chapter 2

“W-What did you just say?”

“That _was_ your wish, was it not?”  Emma’s hands tensed around the grip of her gun when Killian Jones reached into the breast pocket of his—was that a waistcoat?  He held up one hand while the other removed a slip of paper, and he began to read, seemingly to himself, “Emma Swan, Land Without Magic, Boston, Massachusetts, apartment—ah, here we are.  One happy ending in fulfillment of birthday wish—”

“How the hell do you know about that?”

Emma scanned her apartment from ceiling corners to table lamps, wondering if there’d been a recent installation of surveillance equipment, but cursory glances weren’t going to yield the results she wanted.  She’d have to conduct a thorough search once she got rid of the leather-clad whack job in her kitchen.  Or had him arrested.  She hadn’t decided yet.

He continued with his slip of paper, which appeared to have increased in length in the span of ten seconds.

Emma blinked rapidly to clear her vision and commanded herself to keep it together.  Paper didn’t grow.  Happy endings didn’t exist.  And they certainly weren’t _delivered_ by handsome albeit delusional strangers as part of some spur-of-the-moment wish.

Killian Jones mumbled to himself what sounded like contract clauses, not acknowledging a word Emma had said, “…no refunds, exchanges, or substitutions…all happy endings final…to be carried out at client’s discretion prior to expiration…” he clicked his tongue as his eyes trailed farther down the page, “…precisely one year from date of aforementioned wish—”

“Wishes _expire_?”  Emma asked before she could stop herself.

Was she really encouraging his bizarre explanation?

“You may well find it strange, but once upon a time, the business of happy endings wasn’t the well-oiled machine it is now.  It’s simple enough to make a wish, as I’m sure you’re aware— _I wish to go to the ball, I wish for a prince, I wish for a child,_ and so on and so forth—”

“Hold on—”

He casually leaned his frame against the counter’s edge.  “But then a week, a month, a year passes and people come to discover their Happily Ever After isn’t the fairytale they’d imagined—suddenly it’s, _I wish I’d never lost my slipper, I wish my philandering prince would keep it in his codpiece, I wish my son wasn’t made of wood._   Bloody nightmare.”

Emma stared at him, speechless.

“This way, you’ve time to make up your mind about what it is you truly want, and my _superiors_ , as it were, aren’t breathing down my neck about loopholes and addendums and what have you.  Now,” he lay the slip of paper—which Emma was positive had grown to five times its original size—on the counter, in the exact spot where her wish was made.  Not that Killian Jones could know this.  Or could he?

This entire situation was verging on ridiculous.  If anyone else had shown up in her apartment uninvited, in the dark, they would’ve been a stain on the linoleum before the point that conversation presented itself as a viable alternative.

“If you would just sign on the dotted line, we can get started.”  He pulled a pen from his waistcoat pocket and offered it to her, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger, as though to make it more enticing.

Emma looked at it, then back at him.  “I’m calling the cops.”

“Do what you feel you must, Swan.”

She didn’t move, and neither did he.  She stared at him, wanting to strike the smug expression from his face.  More than this, she wanted to smother the soft voice in the back of her mind that kept asking, _what if?_

“Shall I dial for you, or…?”

“First I want answers.”  Emma made a show of aiming for his head.  “Real ones.”

The bastard was as unperturbed as the moment he’d arrived.  “I’m an open book, Love.”

“How do you know about my…how do you know…I—?”

“Wished on a cupcake?”

Emma didn’t answer.  It sounded even more ridiculous out loud.

“It’s my job to know these things.”

“Who’s your employer?”

“I’m afraid that’s need-to-know.”

Emma lowered her weapon, not taking her eyes off him for a second.  There was no doubt he believed what he was saying, but that didn’t make it true.  It made him crazy.  It made _her_ crazy for letting him ramble on about things that only existed in animated movies with princesses who talked to animals.

She had to be dreaming.  In a few minutes she’d wake up to find that the entire ordeal was a trick of her subconscious.

“So you’re what?  My fairy godfather?”

Killian Jones laughed.  “Nothing like that.  I like to think of myself as more of a guide.  I can help you to your happy ending, but what that entails is ultimately up to you.”

“What is that?”  Her gaze moved to the page still awaiting her signature.

“ _That_ is your contract.  It absolves me and my employer of any legal responsibility in the event of death or dismemberment throughout the course of your wish fulfillment.”

“ _What_?”

“Just a jest, Love.”  He smiled as he straightened his posture and meandered around the counter, coming to stand directly opposite Emma, who, against her better judgment, didn’t raise her gun.  “It’s a contract, sure enough, but it merely states that you made the wish of your own free will, without coercion on the part of a third party, and that I, your guide, am under strict obligation to see to your every wish-related need, including but not limited to: meet-cutes, the arrangement of dates, walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, inexplicable musical numbers, lovers spats—with the added option of a rain-soaked locale, and the occasional pinching.”

“Pinching?  Seriously?”

“It’s more common than you might think.  Clients often require proof that they aren’t about to wake up, and _pinching_ , gods know why, seems to be the preferred method.”

Emma frowned.  She really was losing it, wasn’t she?

If this turned out not to be a dream, she was having herself committed first thing the next day.

She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that her reflexes failed her, and before she could deflect his efforts, Killian Jones reached forward and pinched her arm.

“Ow!”  Emma massaged the tender flesh.  “I didn’t ask for that.”

“I’m quite perceptive, as you’ll discover for yourself during our proceedings.”

“What if I don’t want proceedings?  What if I don’t want any of this?”

He shrugged.  “There’s a contract for every occasion.”

“And if I opt out of this whole thing, you’ll leave?”

“Before the ink is dry.”

She looked him over, narrowing her eyes.  “How do I know you’re not just trying to steal my identity?”

He laughed, again, and Emma had to admit, if only to herself, that the sound wasn’t completely unpleasant.  “Would I could always have clients as spirited as you.”

Emma’s heart absolutely did not skip a beat at his phrasing mirroring another disarmingly attractive Englishman.  _“Would I could help you.”_

She shook her head.  That was fiction and this was—

She didn’t know what this was.

It hardly counted as _reality_ , did it?

“So I can change my mind?”

“Any time you so desire—no one will force a happy ending on you.  As I said, I’m here to _help_.”

Killian Jones held the pen out to her a second time, and a second time, that cloying voice fought to drown out everything inside her that screamed, _“Run!”_

In the end, it was the whisper that saw her accepting his offer.  It was the quiet insistence of a sensation she’d not dared entertain since one fateful night in Portland that persuaded her feet across the floor.  But it was the face of a child she’d never seen that moved her hand across the page.

And finally, it was the smallest sliver of hope that pulled a sigh from her lungs once her signature was complete.

She’d expected the appearance of a strange man in her apartment, as though from thin air, to be the most difficult thing to accept about that day.  But in the months to come, she’d remember the instant the script glowed bright as flame and disappeared, the page following soon after, as its true defining moment.

“What the hell was that?  Where’d it go?”

“I have no idea.”  When he’d arrived at Emma’s side, she couldn’t guess.  She’d been too distracted to notice—transfixed by…whatever that was.  “I’ve never seen a contract do that before.  Not unless the client was—”

Emma looked over to see him studying her.  “What?”

“Who are your parents?”

“I don’t have parents.”

He stayed appraising her a moment longer, then said, “No matter.  Now, for our first order of business,” his gaze swept over her from head to toe, “if you’ll be wanting the full makeover package, I’m afraid I’ve left the ball gowns at home.”  He grinned with an arch of his brow.

“I don’t remember _comedian_ being in your job description.”  She met his arched brow with one of her own before she put some much needed space between them.  “I’ll just…go get dressed.”

“Aye.  I’ll wait here,” he said as he helped himself to her couch.

Emma hurried to her bedroom and locked the door behind her, leaning against it for support.  Taking a deep breath, she pinched her thigh for good measure, and winced from the jolt of pain.

_Shit._

She was as crazy as Killian Jones.


	3. Chapter 3

“What about him?”

They’d been sitting there for half an hour while the morning rush ebbed and flowed, Killian Jones selecting men from the herd with variations of the same question.  And for half an hour, Emma had refrained from drawing the weapon at her hip.

_“No,”_ had been her answer to each of his suggestions until, finally, he decided on another tack.

“Perhaps it would help if I knew what you were looking for.  Fair-haired Prince Charming type?  Strong-jawed ginger with a heart of gold?”

Emma took a tentative sip of her coffee, avoiding Killian’s eye at all cost.  “Actually, I prefer brunettes.”

She knew he was smiling—she could practically feel it.  Her suspicions were confirmed when she forced her gaze to meet his.

“Color me flattered, Swan.”

“Can we not make everything about you?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of a connection between myself and your _preference_.”  He leaned across the narrow table.  “Pray, tell, Swan—in what other areas have I tickled your fancy?”

Emma glared at him.  “Remind me again why I didn’t shoot you.”

“It wasn’t for lack of effort, I daresay.”  Killian lingered longer than was necessary, the grin never leaving his lips, the challenge never leaving his eyes—

_…the blue of the forget-me-not…_

—Emma cleared her throat, crossed her legs, not the least bit affected by his efforts to unnerve her, and took up her coffee again.

With a low chuckle, Killian Jones leaned back in his chair and returned to his task of singling out the likeliest love matches.  “What about that one?”

The man at the register wasn’t unattractive—quite the opposite actually.  Dark hair, dark eyes, the earliest traces of stubble along a jaw that could’ve cut glass, but there was something familiar about him.

Emma narrowed her eyes as she tried to retrieve the memory from the depths of her subconscious.  “I think I’ve arrested him before.”  Looking over, she caught Killian’s arched brow.

“What is it you do for a living, Swan?”

“Bail bondsperson.”

“Dangerous job?”

Emma shrugged.  “It can be, I guess.”

The slow nature of his smirk did things to her she’d rather not acknowledge.  “Tough lass.”

“Well,” she braced herself to stand, and to put as much distance between herself and her _guide_ as logistically possible, “this has been…strange, but I’m late for work, so—”

“You’re giving up?”

“Look, I don’t have all day to waste on this nonsense—I have a life.”

“Nonsense?  Need I remind you, Swan, _your_ wish started all this.  If you can’t be bothered to invest time in your own happiness, don’t be surprised if, at year’s end, you’re back where you started.”

“Where’s that?”

Killian looked down at his cup, fidgeting with the to-go lid, his voice empty of the bravado it’d boasted since his arrival—or intrusion—into her life.  “Wishing you didn’t have to be alone on your birthday.”

Emma settled back into her seat.  Despite his gentleness, and despite knowing his words weren’t meant to be malicious, they still stung.  Biting back a surge of emotion that was far too reminiscent of the one that’d led to her having coffee with someone who could very possibly turn out to be a figment of her imagination, she straightened her posture, looked Killian Jones square in the eye, and promised, “ _One_ day.”

It took him all of a millisecond to recover.  Hand still gripping his cup, he pointed across the coffeehouse.  “That one looks like marriage material.”

“Whoa, who said anything about marriage?”

Killian unleashed that infernal brow upon her (it was _not_ , in any way, shape, or form becoming one of Emma’s favorite things about him).  “You forget, Love—I’m attuned to your deepest desires.”

Emma swallowed thickly.  Just how _deep_ did his familiarity run?  Was it an ESP sort of thing?  Could he read her mind?  Did he know about her appreciating just how snug his jeans were when she’d walked behind him?

He smiled and said, “I can see we’re going to have some fun.”

“If one of us doesn’t kill the other.”  Emma mumbled, but she couldn’t deny the relief that washed over her.  “Just how much _do_ you know about me?”

“I can’t see into your thoughts, if that’s your concern.”  He grinned in a manner that had her questioning his sincerity, but nothing triggered her lie detector.  She decided to remain calm until something did.  Returning his attention to the man waiting to be served, Killian said, “That one looks like coffee date material.”  He glanced at Emma.  “Better?”

“Much.”

“Well, go on, then.”

“Go where?”

“Talk to him.”

“That’s it?  Aren’t you supposed to wave a magic wand or something?  Sprinkle fairy dust in his eyes?”

Killian laughed.  “Disney’s done a real number on you.  But consider, if you will, that a certain devilishly handsome individual with limited but workable knowledge of events prior to their taking place became aware of a chance encounter set to occur at precisely 8:14 in this very coffee shop, on this very morning, involving a very reluctant bail bondsperson, wherein she would catch her foot on the lip of a loose tile and fall directly into the arms of her proposed match, and the two of them would go on to share many a happy moment together.”

“Is that true?”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

Emma followed his gaze to the clock above the register in time to see the numbers change.  8:15.

The subject of their discussion passed their table, and Killian grimaced as the door dinged upon the man’s exit.  “I daresay we dodged a bullet with that one.  Unless you wanted to name your children after obscure sixteenth century playwrights.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”  Emma smirked when Killian looked at her, believing her serious, if only for a second.

“Well, if you hurry, you might just catch him before he finds a cab.”

They sat smiling at each other before Emma sobered to the implications of what he’d said.  “I thought you couldn’t read minds.”

Killian grinned.

_Oh, God._

“Relax, Love—my knowledge is sparse, at best.”

“How sparse?”

Setting his cup aside, he leaned forward until Emma was enveloped in a scent like the sea on a stormy day.  “When a person makes a wish, it allows the other side a glimpse into their soul, as it were.  And in that glimpse lie their hopes and their dreams.  You, for instance, wished for a happy ending, but there is also a want for the loneliness you’ve known most your life to meet its end.  There’s someone you miss whom you’ve never met.”  His brows knit together as he tried to make sense of this.  When understanding failed him, he continued, “And while you say you don’t have parents, you did at one point, and you crave answers about the ones who gave you away.  You want to move past the pain of past loves, and to be open to new possibilities.  These are all pieces of the larger picture that is your happy ending.  You see, Emma, it’s more than mere romance, fleeting as that can be without a proper foundation.  You want a fairytale, but you want the fairytale to be real.”

Emma didn’t respond, didn’t think she could.  She remained unmoving, mesmerized by the delicate delivery of a speech that should’ve sent her running.  Maybe it was the tenor of his voice, or the way his eyes seemed to rove every contour of her face, but—

“I’m gonna get another coffee.”  She pushed back her chair, getting to her feet as fast as humanly possible.  “Want anything?”

“Aye.”  He held up his cup.  “Same.”

Emma hurried to an available barista and relayed her order.  She looked over her shoulder in time to see Killian, now standing, put on his jacket, his waistcoat riding up the slightest bit.  If she’d let her gaze wander, she might’ve been able to make out the definition of his abs through a navy blue shirt—

“Miss?”

“Hm?”

The barista held out two cups with a bright, if mildly forced smile.  Emma took them, uttered an apology, and turned to follow the path that’d led her there when the tip of her shoe caught a loose tile and she fell forward, colliding with a hard surface she was grateful wasn’t the floor.  Until she realized what it _was_.

“You okay, Swan?”

She regained her balance and stood up straight, checking the cup she carried in each hand.  Nothing appeared to have spilled.

“Yeah, fine…good.  Here,” she handed Killian his tea.

“Thanks.  I was thinking, perhaps a change of venue might help things along.”

“What’d you have in mind?”


	4. Chapter 4

She closed her eyes as the breeze reshaped the layers of her hair, moved like a caress across her skin, eliciting tingles despite the thick coat she wore.

Ever since she was a young girl, nothing soothed her like the sea.  Something about it had always felt like home—not that she knew much about home.  She was hesitant to admit it, but maybe Killian Jones wasn’t the complete mental case she’d assumed.

“What do you say, Swan?”

Maybe he was simply sent to grate on her nerves.

“Feeling inspired?”

“To do what, exactly?”  Emma stared out at the waves crashing gently on the shore.  The gray skies were supposed to create a somber mood, she knew, but she’d always been calmed by overcast days.  “Look for Mr. Right?”  She rolled her eyes.  “I’m sure he’s just hanging around Boston, waiting for me to find him.”

He’d probably run if she did.

They all ran.

“Perhaps we started things off on the wrong foot,” said Killian.  “Every client requires a unique approach, after all.  Why don’t we consider today a sort of…orientation?  You can tell me more about yourself and help me gain a better understanding of what it is you want.”

Emma turned toward him with a smirk.  “I thought you were attuned to my deepest desires.”

He met her smirk with one of his own.  “Aye.”  Mindful of her personal space, he took short steps forward so that his words weren’t lost to the wind.  “But a person is more than the parts of her life she finds lacking.”

Emma swallowed hard, fighting the impulse to back away.  “What do you want to know?”

“What do you feel comfortable sharing?”

What was she comfortable sharing with a complete stranger?  Not a damn thing.  She wasn’t entirely clear about what he did and did not know about her, or what sort of _glimpse_ he’d gotten into her soul.  But the idea made her cringe a little—okay, a lot.

“It might help if I knew something about you…”

“That seems fair.”

Emma started a path along the water’s edge, fidgeting with her sleeves as she walked, and Killian followed alongside her.  “Where are you from?”

“Let’s start with something simpler.”

“Okay.  How long have you been in this…line of work?”

Killian smiled, looking over at her.  “I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Very well.”  He paused, running his tongue over his bottom lip, an action that didn’t entice Emma in the least.  “Time passes differently in every realm, but by this land’s standards, I’d estimate roughly…three hundred years.”

Emma stopped in her tracks.

Killian turned to face her with a smug expression she was beginning to believe was his default setting.  “I told you.”

“You’re three hundred years old.”

“Give or take thirty years.”

“Bullshit.”

Killian laughed, and the ocean seemed to answer, its once gentle roar like rolling thunder.  The water’s essence reflected in Killian’s eyes like a kindred spirit.  Then again, it could’ve been Emma’s imagination, as moments later, all was calm.

“But you’re—I mean you…you look…”

“I know.”  Killian grinned—or didn’t he ever stop?

Her lie detector had yet to kick in—in fact, the longer she studied him, the more sincere his stare.  She resumed walking and neither of them spoke for several minutes.

“So how does it work?”

“What’s that, Love?”

“The whole _guide_ thing.  A year per client?  You must move around a lot.”

“Most clients finalize their wishes the first day.  Despite manifold warnings, they turn down the allotted time in favor of—I believe the term is ‘instant gratification.’  I must say your prudence is rather refreshing.”

“I’ve been burned a few times by rash decisions.”

Not the least of which was retrieving a duffle bag from a train station in Portland.

“So how did it all start?”  She asked.  “It’s not like a family business, is it?”

Emma braced herself for the answering crash of waves when Killian laughed, but none came.  “No, nothing like that.  It started as most things do—with a wish.”  He glanced at her with a smile that felt more like a wink.  “I wasn’t happy with the turn my life was taking, so I wished for a change.”

“That’s it?”

Killian shrugged.  “Wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.”

“The details make the story.”

His undying smirk widened.  “Point taken.”  He took a deep breath as he readied himself to share his history, and the weight of the moment wasn’t lost on Emma.  “It was the night of my thirtieth year, and there was talk of a celebration, but all that really meant was a toast in my honor before the lads and I headed out to the usual depravity.  It’s strange the things you remember...” For a moment he was lost in silent reflection.  When he spoke again, his voice took on a comforting lilt.  There was something warm about it, like hot chocolate with cinnamon on a winter day.  “It’d rained that afternoon—nothing too bothersome, but enough to make the landscape look as though it were an unfinished canvas, abandoned by its artist mid-stroke.  I told the others to go on without me and swore I’d meet them at the tavern.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Quite perceptive yourself, Swan.  No, I uh…I was poised to leave my quarters, when I glimpsed a sliver of moon through the window.  The clouds parted but a fraction more and I caught a glimmer of light barreling across the sky—what I assumed at the time to be a falling star.  In that moment I saw my life for what it’d become.  Measured in vengeance.  Tainted by misfortune.  As I stood, frozen, in the place I’d heard my brother’s voice for the last time, it all added up to a hollow existence.  I remembered the honorable man Liam had been in his life, and the honorable man I promised him I’d become.  I realized then just how far I’d strayed from my word.  So I made a wish, Swan, same as you.  I beseeched a falling star for the chance at redemption.”  Killian ran his hand along the baseline of his hair.  “Sometimes I wonder what might’ve happened had I gone with the others to town.  What sort of mischief I might’ve encountered.  How many pints it would’ve taken to drown that particular evening’s sorrows.”

Emma searched for any words to erase the sad lines that’d crept across his face.  “Did they make you sign a contract?” was the best she could come up with.

“They did.”  She exhaled a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding until Killian’s smile returned.  “Nothing as complex as the client contract.  There’s really only one rule a guide must never break, under penalty of death.”

“And what is that?”

“Under no circumstances am I to make myself a client’s happy ending.”

“Oh.”  Emma frowned.  “Has that happened before?”

“I’ve heard of it happening once or twice—one of those cautionary tales that get passed around.”

“Have you ever fallen for a client?”

“I can honestly say I have not.”  He tilted his head to an exaggerated angle.  “You’ll notice my head’s firm attachment to my neck.”

Emma smiled.  “What about your happy ending?”

“I’m not sure I have one.  You know how it goes—misspent youth, dastardly deeds, villainous plots.  It’s probably been erased, if it existed at all.”

He expected Emma to believe him unaffected by this confession, but she saw his bravado for the mask it was.  “So you’ve spent all this time giving happiness to others and you get…nothing?”

“I wouldn’t say _nothing_ , Swan.  There’s always the reward of a job well done.”

“That sounds very lonely.”

“Aye.”  He said, abandoning the pretense of detachment.  “It can be.”

Emma knew what it was to be alone.  Aside from a brief stint in which she thought she’d actually found someone to build a future with, that’s exactly what she’d been her whole life.  Despite only knowing Killian for a handful of hours, seeing the same look in his eyes that she saw in the mirror every morning made her want to end his suffering.

Or, at the very least, divert attention from it.

“So, do you have a place in the city?”

“You didn’t actually _read_ the contract, did you?”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”  She looked over at him when he didn’t respond.  “Okay, officially afraid.”  He scratched behind his ear, the action like a nervous tic.  Emma touched his arm and stopped walking.  “Killian?”

With a sigh, he relented.  “Subsection B, under the heading _Provisional Room and Board,_ stipulates that it is the responsibility of the wish maker,” he gestured to Emma, “hereafter referred to as the client, to provide the wish granter,” and then to himself, “the necessary accommodations until termination of contract, or such a time as the aforementioned agreement is rendered null and void—”

“There is no way in hell you’re staying at my apartment for a year.”  He went to argue—probably something about technicalities—when Emma cut him off, “Or however long this whole _arrangement_ lasts.”

“You are well within your rights to cast me out, Swan.  It would not be my first encounter with destitution.  Don’t worry about me, I’m nothing if not a survivor.”

“I think you mean _martyr_.”

Killian grinned, and she’d be damned if it didn’t chip away at her resolve every second they remained unspeaking.

“Fine.”  She stomped away, grumbling profanities under her breath.  “What the hell else did I sign away?  My second born?”

“Have you a first born, Love?”

_“It’s a boy, Emma.”_

_His cry filled the room, small and strong at the same time.  If she just looked over—_

_“Emma?”_

_She shook her head, grasping the hospital bed, turning her body as far from the child—as far from her son—as possible._

_“Emma, just so you know, you can change your mind.”_

“No.”

“You just—”

“Look, I’m tired, and all this talk about wishes and happy endings is giving me a headache, so I’m going home.  _Don’t_ follow me.”

—

Night fell before he knocked on her door.  She opened it to find him standing at the threshold, no snarky comments, no demands for an explanation.  He didn’t even help himself inside, but waited for her to take a step back and let him pass.

“You can take the couch,” she said, “I’m going to bed.”

But she couldn’t sleep for thinking, and for the discomfort of a bed she’d avoided since it was purchased.  It was more for aesthetic than anything—after all, what was a bedroom without a bed?  She preferred the living room, now occupied by a man who already knew more about her than most boyfriends she’d had.

She went out to find him fast asleep, fully clothed except for his leather jacket, which was splayed across the end table.  Seeing his arms linked across his chest, Emma took pity on him and found a blanket, lingering to look at him once he was covered.

_“…a certain devilishly handsome individual…”_

Emma smiled to herself.  Maybe the next year wouldn’t be a _total_ disaster.


	5. Chapter 5

It'd taken twelve days, but Emma finally came up with the perfect descriptor for Killian Jones. Summed up in a single word, the man was insufferable.

He plodded up the steps behind her, clicking his tongue as he skimmed through listings on his phone—because, naturally all magical wish-fulfilling beings had phones but no address.

"Here's one—wait…never mind."

Emma clenched the keys against her palm, the trenches they carved deterring her from telling the shadow at her back  _exactly_  where he could spend the next year.

The first apartment had been too small, the second too large.

_"What're you, Goldilocks?"_

The farther down the list, the more ridiculous the complaints. He didn't care for the view, the closet space was insulting, the floorplan was abysmal—in some cases  _astonishingly_  so. One was too far from Emma's place, which she didn't think was possible at this point. Another was too far from all bodies of water.

_"Homesickness, you understand."_

Understanding had its limits. He was trying her patience, and he was doing it on purpose.

She tossed her keys on the counter and kicked off her shoes without caring where they would land. Maybe Killian would trip on them and the fall would dampen his good mood.

Emma almost didn't hear him say, "Better luck tomorrow," because she was halfway to her room. She slammed the door, not saying a word, and imagined his quiet, "Goodnight," like an afterthought to his electronic trance.

Come early morning, he'd render her alarm obsolete in a manner that had her missing the ability to hit  _snooze_  until she had no other option but to crawl out of bed.

_"Up and at 'em, Swan. Five thirty."_

Emma would growl while reaching across her mattress for something to throw at him. Only pillows would meet her searching grasp, and she'd decide they were better than nothing. The door would latch before impact and open again immediately after.

_"Breakfast in ten."_

He'd disappear and Emma would curse his name for the wretched morning person he was.

For twelve days this had been their pattern. Twelve days it'd been  _True Love this_  and  _happy ending that_. If Emma had to endure a full year of  _"Look on the bright side, Swan,"_  she'd probably murder herself a guide before she finalized her wish.

She was starting to have serious regrets about signing that contract. She had yet to be convinced that any good would come from it. Or that she wasn't hallucinating the man living in her apartment. Or that this entire thing wasn't going to bite her in the ass.

Work was her one reprieve—eight blissful hours away from Killian's cloying optimism (okay, maybe not  _blissful_ ). Of course, he was the reason she'd had to cut back even that much.

_"If you can't be bothered to invest time in your own happiness..."_

That morning, he'd been posted at the stove, prepping the contents of her fridge for what would make an interesting omelet when Emma entered the kitchen and tossed the day's classifieds on the counter next to him.

_"What's this?"_

_"This apartment is too small for two people."_

_"Kicking me out, Swan?"_

_"I might be responsible for your housing, but the contract doesn't say it has to be_ my _house." Her confidence wavered when remembering she hadn't actually read the terms and conditions she'd agreed to. "Does it?"_

_Killian smiled, returning to his task. "No."_

_"I've circled some available apartments in the area, so you'd still be…close."_

_"Very well. I'll have a look while you're out ridding the city of its scourge."_

_"I thought I'd go with you."_

_He looked over at her. "Don't you trust me?"_

_"I don't know you."_

_"Fair point."_

_Emma tried to see past the wounded expression he masked too late. "I took the day off."_

_"Are you so eager to be rid of me?"_

_While his culinary skills had her dreading the day she returned to frozen dinners for every meal, his constant proximity—her constant_ awareness _of his proximity—was taking her to levels of frustration she didn't think were possible._

_The man was meticulous about everything—her apartment hadn't been this clean when she first moved in. He'd taken command of her schedule like a ship's captain at the helm—she was_ not _about to admit that her days were in any way better organized than they were before. Not to mention his scent had become a permanent part of her couch—she'd never be able to sit on it, much less anything else, without thinking of him._

_And if he signed her up for one more dating website when she wasn't home—_

_"Can you not be difficult about this?"_

_"When would you like to start?" Killian added his ingredients to the pan. "I should caution—if you say_ as soon as possible _, there's a strong chance you'll hurt my feelings."_

_"Then I won't say it."_

_Killian smiled but was too focused on his work to see the one Emma gave him._

Now all she wanted was to sleep the day away and cling to the likelihood, slim as it was, that Killian's prediction was right and they'd have better luck tomorrow.

—

_She knew it was wrong, but she was so far from caring._

_"Do you trust me?"_

_She said, "I don't know you," already breathless as he forged a trail that started at her neck—_

_"Let's see if we can't remedy that."_

_—and traveled down, down—_

_She gasped, gripping the sheets when his mouth ended its descent—_

"Mm…?"

He was saying something, kneeling by her bed. How he'd gotten there from—

_Oh, God._

Her eyes tried to focus, but all they saw was a slow curving smile. The same one he'd had before—

Emma covered her face with her hand, attempted to rub her vision free of its haze.

Killian's words jumbled together. Or was that a trick of her sleep-addled mind, choosing to hear them out of order?

"Apologies, Love." His voice became clearer but his face was still a blur—not like it had been moments ago. So clear, so close. The scruff along his jaw less coarse than it appeared. "But you didn't wake when I called you."

"Mm." She fell back against her pillow, not realizing until she did that she hadn't been lying down. "I'm not hungry."

Killian laughed. "You haven't heard anything I've said."

"Who are you, again? And where's my gun?"

That deep, uneven sound stirred memories from her unconscious state. Blue eyes darkened by desire, soft lips and a clever tongue and,  _"You're a bloody marvel, Swan."—_

"Come, I'll show you." He took her hand and dragged her from beneath the covers, despite her groans of protest, not letting go until they were outside her front door.

He reached into the pocket of his flannel pajama pants—on loan from an ex Emma hoped had taken her advice and gone straight to hell—and pulled out a key, dangling it in the air between them.

"Should I be dressed for this?"

Killian crossed the hall, used the key on the apartment opposite Emma's, and walked inside.

The layout was a mirror image of hers. Sunlight shone through open windows and reflected off every surface until the space was almost too bright to look at—then again, that could have just been Emma's unadjusted eyes.

"What do you think?"

"It's…empty."

"Very astute, Swan." Killian rolled his eyes.

"Is this your way of telling me you want to rent this place?"

"This is my way of telling you that, as of six o'clock this morning, I am no longer your unwelcome houseguest."

"Seriously?"

"It's a done deal."

"Think you could've found anything closer?"

"There was a rather comfortable couch I recently called home, but alas, some things aren't meant to be."

It was Emma's turn to roll her eyes. "Speaking of couches, are you having furniture delivered, or…?" She took a sweeping glance of the stark apartment, knowing that the dust had only hours to live.

"No furniture, I'm afraid—as you may have gleaned, impatient clients don't leave much time for settling in.  _That_  is where you come in."

—

She needed to stop staring. It was only a matter of time before he took notice of the fact that whenever he talked or breathed or did that thing where he ran his tongue over his bottom lip while thinking up a sarcastic remark, Emma's eyes became immediately trained on his mouth. And she found herself wondering if it was as talented in real life as it had been—

"Swan?"

"What?" She looked over at Killian, whose grin would suggest that he was fighting the temptation to tease her for her lapses in concentration. "I'm listening."

"What do you think of this one?" He pointed to a checkered loveseat that reminded Emma of something a grandmother would buy—not that she knew much about grandmothers.

"I think…we should keep looking."

"Keep in mind, this is all temporary—longer than my usual stint, but temporary all the same. At the end of the year it won't matter if my living room was decorated in dragon scales."

Emma nodded, more of a reflex than anything. A subtle action so the world wouldn't see the way his warning, on near constant repeat in her mind, still affected her.

_"…don't be surprised if, at year's end, you're back where you started."_

"Are you planning to have company while you're here?"

"Hadn't given it much thought."

"Will you be making any…friends?" Emma smiled at the look he gave her that demanded she get to the point. "Well, for instance, you can't date clients, but does that mean you can't date anyone? What if you want to bring them back to your place—do you really want  _that_ ," she gestured to his selection, "to be the first thing they see? If that's what your couch looks like, I'd hate to see your bed."

He smirked. "Will you be helping me pick that out, as well?"

"I'm not gonna test drive it with you, if that's what your eyebrow is insinuating."

Killian's amusement was far from gone, but he continued on toward the maze of sectional sofas. "You know, Swan, I would  _hope_  that my date would be interested in me and not my taste in furniture."

"Horrible," Emma corrected. "Horrible taste in furniture."

"I think that's subjective—"

"Nope."

"I'm not sure I like this side of you."

"You like all my sides."

Killian ran his tongue over his bottom lip, seemingly for no other reason than the universe had a cruel sense of humor, but whatever he'd been about to say, he thought better of it and walked away. Emma saw him eyeing another hideous specimen and was about to list everything that made it a crime against humanity when she caught sight of a familiar figure heading their way, and she stopped in her tracks.

"Swan? Something wrong?"

Her eyes shot to Killian's. "No. Nothing."

The tilt of his head told her he knew she was full of shit. "Em—"

"Emma? I thought that was you."

She pretended she didn't notice his approach until he was in their midst, pretended his presence didn't fill her with dread. "Carter, hi."

"It's been ages." Before Emma could react, his arms closed around her, squeezing tight. "How've you been?"

"Good. I've been good."

_No thanks to you._

When he released her, it was all she could do to keep from shuddering. And though it made her feel pathetic—a poor damsel in need of saving—she looked to Killian with a silent plea she hoped he understood. He took her hand, lacing their fingers, and the spark of mischief in his eyes set her at ease. As much as anything could.

"So, you been keeping busy?" Asked Carter. Smug as ever, like he just  _knew_  the answer would be  _no_.

"You could say that."

"They never tell you the stress of planning a wedding until you're up to your neck in color palettes," said Killian.

"You're getting married?"

"In the spring," Killian answered easily. "Just picking out furniture for our new place."

"That's…that's wonderful. Congratulations."

"It is wonderful. Wouldn't you say it's wonderful, darling?"

"Yes." Emma smiled up at him. "Yes, I would."

"The waiting is bloody torture, I must say."

"Are you saying I'm not worth the wait?"

In a gesture that almost had Emma forgetting their ruse, Killian tucked his hand under her chin and said, "Were it a lifetime from this moment, you, my love, would be worth every minute."

She felt herself leaning into him until their audience brought her crashing back to reality with an exaggerated clearing of his throat.

Killian's posture went rigid, but he didn't move away, didn't let go. "How do you two know each other, then?"

"Oh, Emma and I go way back." Carter watched her with that roving gaze, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, and it was like nothing had changed. And she guessed nothing had—not for him. "Had some good times."

He was like a plague, and she couldn't escape him. She had the misfortune of running into him during the worst times in her life, like it was some cosmic joke at her expense, a reminder that no matter how hard she tried, she'd never outrun her mistakes.

He loved every second of it, too. Loved seeing the way his mocking smile made her squirm. Loved that he'd come out the victor in a game Emma hadn't known they were playing.

"I must've missed the good."

"You're not still sore about the way things ended." He laughed, the haughty sort of laugh that was invented for the sole purpose of making its victim cringe at their own idiocy. "Are you?"

"Why would I be?"

Carter shrugged. "You know how some women can be after a breakup."

"I don't, actually."  _Misogynist bastard._  "But speaking of breakups, how's your wife?"

His façade cracked. It was brief—little more than a shadow crossing his face, but it was enough. "I wouldn't know. We, uh…aren't together…anymore."

Emma said, "That's too bad," but she had a feeling her true meaning was clear as day:  _karma's a bitch and I hope she follows you to your grave._  "She finally catch you in the act?"

His next smile was forced, lined with bitterness—was that what she'd looked like to him? So transparently spiteful, all these years? "Well, I should really be going," he said, taking backward steps. "It was nice seeing you again, Emma."

Once he was out of sight, Killian said, "Are you okay?"

"What's your stance on drinking before noon?"

"Favorable."

"Let's get the hell out of here." Emma let go of his hand and cut a course for the nearest exit.

—

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Emma moved the amber bottle between hands. "No."

"We've all had dalliances we wish we could forget."

"Even you?"

Killian smiled like he was resisting the sarcasm that was second nature after—she took a slow sip of her beer—three hundred years. "Even me."

Meeting Carter had been like a miracle—not that she believed in miracles. But she'd been young and, despite everything that happened in Portland, naïve. The only food she had she'd carried with her in a knapsack, and it was running out fast. When he'd offered her a job—a real job—after so many rejections she'd lost count, it'd felt like something had  _finally_  gone right in her life. She'd started to fear that all anyone would ever see when they looked at her was a risk they weren't willing to take. But Carter didn't care that she hadn't graduated high school, or that she had a record but no experience.

_"I've made an important decision, Emma."_

_She waited with bated breath, clutching her chair for support._

_"I've decided to take a chance on you."_

At first it had been a mild flirtation that Emma didn't think anything of—didn't  _let_  herself think anything of. Because Carter flirted with everyone. Then daytime flirtation turned to late night meetings and early morning walks of shame. And Emma was sinking before it occurred to her to turn back.

He told her things he claimed he'd never told anyone. Spoke of the loneliness he faced. No one understood the struggles of a man on top.

_"I never thought I'd find someone like you."_

She didn't want to forget. She wanted the whole sordid mess erased from existence. Her story rewritten.

Was something like that even possible? If she wished hard enough?

"It's cliché, I know. Sleeping with your boss."

"Look who you're talking to, Swan—clichés are my bread and butter."

Emma smiled, but it quickly faded as she watched the liquid swish around the bottle's bottom half. "I don't know why he still gets to me."

Because she'd vowed never to trust anyone again. And he'd gotten too close for comfort.

Because he'd been a lot like Neal in the beginning. Even more so in the end. And she should've seen it coming.

Because she couldn't shake the feeling that, if she ever saw Neal again, he'd see her in the same light as Carter. Some poor misguided soul, ripe for devastation. And he'd mock the pain he inflicted.

"I guess…"

"Go on, Love."

Something about Killian's expression—patient and earnest at the same time—told her it was safe to confide in him.

But she'd felt safe once before.

"I guess it made it kind of exciting…" she tried and failed to keep her gaze from wandering down, down, "…knowing it was forbidden."

She swallowed thickly at the sudden intensity in Killian's eyes, and neither of them spoke, neither of them seemed to breathe for what felt like forever.

"To new beginnings." Killian tilted his longneck bottle toward her, and she met him in the middle, the quiet  _clink_  of their toast echoing across the empty apartment.

It was supposed to be a joke, something to lighten the mood her encounter had created, but the words escaped more desperate than she ever meant for them to be. And when they did, she could no longer deny how badly she wanted what she didn't think was possible.

"To happy endings."


	6. Chapter 6

She liked watching the rain. She liked the smells it stirred in the earth, liked the sound as it pattered against the windowpane, and the way it transformed the city's streets into a sort of living photograph. But if she'd known what fate had in store for her that rainy November day, she never would've gotten out of bed. Not that she believed in fate. But something was clearly laughing its ass off as she trudged through the lagoon that was once the street where she lived, her dress a soaked and muddied mess from the cab that seemed to have  _aimed_  for the darkest puddle possible, her face no better. By the time she reached her apartment there'd be no telling her apart from a drowned rat.

Killian had been happily settled into his own place for five days, and for five days Emma had fallen back into old routines, starting with her morning assault on that damned end table. But that day was something else. That day was marred by so much more than sore toes and clenched teeth and curses that would've shamed her mother if she'd had one. It'd reached the point where she experienced a genuine longing for one of the magical realms her guide insisted were real. She'd rolled her eyes at herself for entertaining the idea, for allowing Killian to spew such nonsense in her presence to begin with, but she couldn't deny that getting lost in a fairytale didn't sound so bad in light of the swamp currently forming inside her favorite pumps.

Her feet squished against them as she came to a stop at the last intersection before her block. She was so close that just the thought of a warm shower sparked tingles along her arms and down her legs. All she wanted was to be clean and dry and unconscious while this train wreck of a day disappeared in a haze of red wine and late night TV.

She looked over her shoulder as she waited for the stick-figure pedestrian to appear. Across the street, kitty-corner from her building, a lighted sign flashed like a beacon in the rain, only four remaining letters where days ago there'd been six. Its façade gave the illusion of being equal in size to a gas station mini-mart, but its interior, as though in homage to a structure only found in science fiction, was larger than its outer walls would suggest. Were this store not tied to the disaster that'd been her evening, the mere sight of it might not have rekindled the rage she was trying hard to overcome.

_It was the second night in two weeks that she had her apartment entirely to herself. No one around to call her_ darling _or_ love _or keep her up at all hours to discuss "the game plan." No one sharing her bathroom or crowding her couch. She was surrounded by blissful, all-encompassing silence—finally. So why the hell couldn't she sleep?_

_She supposed there was something uneasy about the quiet, something untamed that'd stalked in the shadows even before Killian came along to interrupt her solitude. After a lifetime of fending for herself, silence had become a close companion, the absence of sound a lullaby in itself. She'd yielded to its softly crooned truths at a young age—maybe too young. But she was grateful, thinking back, that isolation had ruined her before expectation had the chance. After all, if she didn't look out for her own interests, who would? But sometimes silence had an edge, and it forged a path that only the most tortured memories knew to take._

_As if it sensed her restless mind, her phone buzzed with an alert. She didn't realize until it did that she'd clutched the device in her hand the way a child might cling to a blanket they've named. A guardian to keep watch while they slept._

_**You awake, Swan?** _

_Emma smirked as a wave of relief washed over her, anticipation at its heels._ _**Depends what you want.** _

**_Thought you might fancy a midnight snack._ **

_She met him in the hallway and they argued for fifteen minutes, unashamed of their pajama-clad states even as the old woman at the end of the hall peeked around her door—glared was probably more accurate—hissing at them to keep it down, and informing them that public lewdness was a crime and they ought to be ashamed._

_The feud, if it could be called that, had started a few months back when Emma found what she'd thought at the time to be a stray dog rummaging for scraps in the alleyway outside their building. She'd taken him to the animal shelter and learned the next day that he'd been adopted by a little girl. A week later she'd seen the flyers asking for information on a missing dog that fit the description of the one she'd "rescued." Guilt had gotten the better of her and she'd confessed what she'd done to the neighbor she'd never met. Suffice it to say, the offense had gone unforgiven. Anytime she witnessed Emma's misfortune, the old woman poked her head out her door and said, "serves you right," and slammed it closed again._

_Killian apologized on behalf of them both before Emma had the chance to speak. "Rest assured, it won't happen again."_

_It'd taken another ten minutes to agree that their best option for food at that hour was the all-night market on the corner._

_—_

_"_ _What?"_

_He eyed her selection with a grin that was too wide to be anything but an insult and continued down the aisle. "Nothing."_

_"_ _Something." Emma caught up to him and dropped her box of strawberry pop tarts into the cart. "Is everything I do ridiculous to you?"_

_"_ _There isn't a thing about you I find ridiculous."_

_She highly doubted that._

_Killian looked over when she didn't respond. "I was only thinking that we have something in common. Well don't look_ too _surprised—it was bound to happen eventually."_

_Against her better judgment, Emma smiled._

_They perused the shelves for anything that piqued their interests. It was Killian's idea that they should take their purchases back to his place, where he claimed to have a surprise waiting for her._

_"_ _Why does that worry me?"_

_"_ _I'm beginning to think worry is in your nature."_

_It probably had something to do with his insistence that they needed to be more proactive with regards to finalizing her wish._ "Just because we have a whole year doesn't mean we should wait until the eleventh hour to make up our minds." _When they'd become "we," Emma didn't know._

_During his brief stay with her, he'd tried broaching the subject of her parents, but she hadn't been in the mood to talk about them—she didn't think that would ever change. If they wanted to be found, wouldn't she have done so by now? When he'd brought up the child she hadn't wanted him to know about, she didn't talk to him for the next three days. So they'd settled_ _for concentrating on the romantic aspect first—it'd felt safer that way. It was something she could handle. She wasn't ready to face the rest._

_She realized it'd been a mistake to let her guard down, to think that a late-night trip to the market could be just that, when Killian started asking some strange man outside the store about the proper technique for buying pumpkins._

_"_ _My sister," he said, sounding every bit the amiable New Englander, "is hopeless when it comes to this stuff. Tell him, Ems." He nudged Emma's arm with his._

_She forced a smile while plotting her guide's demise._

_"_ _You wouldn't mind helping her out, would you?"_

_"_ _Uh…" the man looked her over—probably checking for signs that he should run the other way. "Sure."_

_"_ _Excellent." Killian shoved Emma toward the man and reentered the market._

_"_ _What the hell was that?" She later asked him._

_He took a healthy bite from an apple he'd pocketed as they waited to cross the street. "What the hell was what?"_

_"_ 'My sister is hopeless with this stuff.' _"_

_Killian shrugged. "Thought he might be your type—you know, Swan, you're going to have to be a bit more proactive concerning your future. We are talking about_ Forever _, here."_

_She grumbled to herself, which made Killian laugh. If he used the word_ proactive _one. more. time—"I'm a good person. I pay my taxes. I'm not sure what I did to deserve you."_

_"_ _I like you too, Swan." He winked at her, and it was all she could do not to push him into oncoming traffic._

_—_

_They were halfway through unpacking groceries into Killian's fridge when it dawned on her: Killian had a fridge. She spun on her heel to face the rest of the apartment. He had a living room set and sconces, paintings of storm ravaged ships hanging on the walls. Shelves lined with navigational gear and bottles with miniature ships inside. Anchors and chains and accents of rope—_

_"_ _You decorated."_

_"_ _Did you know they have professionals to do this sort of thing_ for _you?"_

_Emma smirked. "You don't say."_

_"_ _I must admit, I'm quite pleased with the result."_

_Emma narrowed her eyes at him and stomped toward the space's most prominent addition. "This is the couch I liked and you said didn't feel right."_

_Killian came to stand next to her, casting a critical eye over the piece. "Are you sure?"_

_"_ _You don't remember? I sat here," Emma mimicked her actions from the furniture store, situating herself on the couch's middle cushion, "and I told you to imagine a matching recliner," she pointed to each item as she went down the list," add a couple throw pillows and a coffee table…"_

_"_ _Hm." Killian grunted. "Guess I couldn't picture it."_

_"_ _This is why you should trust me."_

_Killian quirked his brow—she wondered if he was even aware he did that. And how often. "So now it's_ I _don't trust_ you _?"_

_"_ _I seem to remember a midnight snack was promised."_

_He wasn't fooled by her attempts to distract him, but he went along with the change of topic and made a few of his own—not the least of which was whether or not his instincts had been right about the man with the pumpkin._

_Emma was tight-lipped. She was less than eager to admit she hadn't found the guy repulsive. He'd been quite charming, actually, and the two of them had made plans to meet for dinner later in the week. She shared none of this with Killian, of course—and give him a reason to gloat?_

_They ate in companionable silence in front of Killian's TV, due in part to his being thoroughly engrossed in the movie Emma had retrieved from her collection after learning that he'd never seen it._

_"_ _This Prince Humperdinck," he said, "I think I've met him."_

_Emma laughed, then bit her lip when seeing how serious he was. "You know he's fictional…"_

_"_ _As is magic, according to you. And fairytales and Happily Ever After—I'm probably a bloody figment of your imagination by this world's logic." He glanced over at her. "That's what you've been telling yourself, isn't it? That none of this is real and at any moment you'll wake up to discover it was all a dream."_

_"_ _How did you…?" She scowled at him when the corner of his mouth curved with the smile he'd been holding back. "Would you quit doing that?"_

_"_ _I told you, Swan. I'm perceptive." He went back to watching the movie, returning Emma to a state of paranoia about whether or not he could actually read her mind._

_She told herself it was a joke and that he kept falling back on it because she was an easy target, and steered the conversation in a less unsettling direction. "You've seriously never seen this?"_

_"_ _Believe it or not, I don't get much downtime in my line of work. You're the first client who's shown an interest in spending time with me…ever."_

_He didn't say it so she'd pity him, the way people sometimes do. It was a simple fact: Killian Jones didn't make many friends doing what he did. Being able to count the number of friends she'd made in her life on one hand and still have room to spare, Emma could relate._

_"_ _We can't make a habit of this."_

_"_ _What?"_

_"_ _As much as I enjoy your company, Swan, we're not going to make any progress by staying in every night."_

_Emma stared at the screen, not really seeing. She lost focus around the time the grandfather was closing the book and offering to skip over the last kiss, for the sake of the kid. "What if I'm like you?" Killian looked over. "What if my happy ending doesn't exist? You know, misspent youth and everything."_

_"_ _It's hardly fair to liken the two—I'm certain whatever misdeeds lie in your past pale greatly in comparison to mine."_

_"_ _Try me."_

_He sat back against the couch where previously he'd leaned forward with both arms rested on his legs. "When I told you about my brother, I failed to mention the effect his passing had on the course of my life. You see, I was much like your farm boy, here, before he left to seek his fortune. And much like him when he returned."_

_Emma tried—she really did—but some smiles couldn't be helped. "You were a pirate."_

_"_ _Aye. As cutthroat as any. It was because of a cowardly king that Liam suffered so tragic an end, and I vowed revenge on his realm until the debt was repaid." His gaze faltered for a moment. "I learned too late that vengeance is empty. As much as I took from the kingdom I once served, nothing could return my brother to me."_

_"_ _Couldn't you have…wished for him to come back?"_

_Killian shook his head. "It doesn't really work like that. There are some things even magic cannot cure."_

_He had that look again, same as on the beach, and Emma racked her brain for a diversion. She decided on a question she wasn't sure she wanted answered. "Will I remember you? When the year is over?"_

_He hesitated, and Emma was surprised by the disappointment that followed his response. "All part of the contract, I'm afraid."_

_"_ _But you'll remember me?"_

_"_ _I remember all my clients."_

_The more she learned about his job, the lonelier it sounded, and it had her wondering, "What was your wish?"_

_"_ _I've already told you."_

_But there had to be more to it._

_"I don't understand how wishing for redemption means spending the rest of your life alone—remembering people who can't remember you. Never finding your own happiness. Don't take this the wrong way, but your 'line of work' sounds more like a prison sentence."_

_Killian didn't respond, didn't meet her gaze._

_"_ _Is that what it is?"_

_"_ _Consider it atonement for the villain I once was." He smiled, but the gesture was hollow, not reaching his eyes._

_"_ _So you're being punished? For how long?" There was a tightness in Emma's chest when she looked at him, when he spoke with a tone that tried to convince her he didn't care._

_"_ _For as long as The Powers That Be command."_

_Emma would've given anything to console him, but she didn't know how. Didn't know him well enough. Every time she opened her mouth, she was met with silence and she was reminded of its cruel nature. Soon Killian was shrugging off the moment and clearing away the dishes they'd used and asking what movie they should watch next—he'd leave the decision up to her, given her apparent knack for it._

_—_

_She must've lost track of time because one minute Darcy was confessing his love for Elizabeth Bennet despite her inferior birth and the next, she was squinting into the morning light streaming in from the windows. The couch twisted and groaned beneath her before reality revealed itself, and she sat up with a start._

_Killian opened his eyes, peering up at her with a satisfied smile. "Morning, Love."_

_"_ _Morning." Emma bolted from the cushion as though it'd suddenly caught fire, and searched on hands and knees for her shoes, swearing she'd kicked them under the coffee table. "Why didn't you wake me? I'm gonna be late."_

_"_ _You seemed so peaceful."_

_She rolled her eyes. "Well, I hope you enjoyed the view because you won't be seeing it again."_

_"_ _If it's all the same, I rather prefer the view I've got now."_

_Emma sat back on her heels to obstruct his sightline to her backside. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"_

There were no cars within a mile of the intersection and she was tired of waiting for someone who wasn't going to show, so she stepped off the curb and into the waiting flood. At the crosswalk's centermost point, Emma's body jerked violently to one side and she swore vengeance upon whatever person or cosmic force was responsible for the Lemony Snicket novel that was her life. Removing her shoes, only one of which still boasted a heel, she continued to her apartment on freezing bare feet.

The old woman wasn't one to waste an opportunity. She poked her head into the hallway, took one look at Emma, and grinned. She didn't need to speak—her eyes bore her taunt. And it was like the final straw, sent to break Emma.

But the worst was far from over, and she should've known. There were no small mercies. Life was one giant suck fest and then you died. This was no truer in Emma's mind than when the lights flickered for a few bittersweet seconds and the apartment was swathed in shadow.

"Figures." Her hand curled into a fist, her nails digging deep, when there was a knock at her open door. "If it isn't the happiness guru, himself." She turned to face him but all she saw was black.

"Just came to see if you were okay."

"If I say  _yes_ , will you go home?"

"Bad day?"

"Bad would've been an improvement."

She heard a sound like the snapping of fingers and then there was light again, softer than florescent, warmer. A quick survey of her apartment showed that every candle she owned had been lit, as well as some she'd never seen.

"Did you…?"

"You're welcome," Killian answered before she knew what to ask.

"Couldn't you just bring back the power?"

"I'm afraid that's outside my authority. There could be any number of purposes the outage is meant to serve. Interfering with destiny can have catastrophic consequences."

"Says the guy who grants wishes for a living."

Killian grinned. "There's a delicate screening process, I can assure you."

"Of course there is. Do you make these rules up as you go?"

Finally taking in her appearance, he said, "Want to talk about it?"

"What's there to talk about?" She tossed her shoes into the trash as she ventured farther into the apartment with Killian not far behind. "How I spent two hundred dollars on an end table and all it seems to be good for is spraining appendages? Or how I dropped my curling iron while it was on and part of me thought I could catch it with my bare hand? Probably the same idiotic part that agreed to go on a date with some asshole you found groping pumpkins at one in the morning, who called me after I'd waited for two hours at the bar of a restaurant that won't seat you until your entire party arrives, all because of  _someone's_  voice in the back of my head— _'Give it a chance, Emma. Invest in your own happiness, Emma.'_  And do you know what he said? 'Sorry I couldn't make it, but we can still meet up if you wanted to  _make a connection_.'"

Something flashed in Killian's eyes—like disapproval, only darker.

"Or would you like to hear about how I locked my keys in my office so I couldn't change out of this," she gestured to the curve-hugging dress she usually reserved for entrapping perps. Killian's gaze followed her hand, "before coming home. Not that it matters because my car died on the way to work—I would've made it, too, if I hadn't stopped for coffee. Which the guy screwed up, and which I spilled because I tripped over that damned fucking tile you so kindly pointed out. And I don't know if you've noticed, but the heavens have opened up and Boston will probably be under water by morning."

Killian gave her a strange look—serious when she'd expected sarcastic. "Tell me everything that's gone wrong."

She couldn't think of a single thing that'd gone  _right_ , but she humored him, detailing the rest of her day's incidents, including very nearly choking herself when exiting her apartment because she didn't know she'd closed her scarf in the door. When she was done, he was quiet for a long time, contemplating.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he finally said.

"You don't sound like you mean that."

"I'd have to do some research, but this unfortunate series of events may be linked to the conditions of your contract."

"Conditions?"

He thought over his answer, intent on holding something back. "Like I said, I'd have to do some research. In the meantime, why don't you draw yourself a bath, and I'll get started on dinner."

Emma didn't have it in her to argue, even if every fiber of her being was reluctant to encourage this kind of behavior, lest he get the wrong idea.

Lest she did.

They couldn't afford to form a bond with one another, to become friends, if he was only going to leave in the end. A cleaner exit than others she'd let herself get close to, but an exit just the same.

She grabbed a full bottle of wine from the shelf and said, "I'm taking this with me."

Killian was kind enough not to laugh.

—

Immersed beneath the surface coated with a veritable mountain range of bubbles, with the gentle undulating water driving the cold from her bones, Emma was well on her way to liking the rain again. It was strange, the way a simple change in conditions could shift a person's mood—of course, a little alcohol never hurt.

She reached for the half-empty bottle and smiled to herself. Strange, that she'd known Killian scarcely a few weeks and she could imagine what his response would be.  _"You know, Swan, there are some who would argue that the bottle is half-full."_

She hardly knew a thing about him, and yet—

Downing a healthy swallow, she hoped the wine might drown any and all thoughts pertaining to the man in her kitchen, currently scouring her cupboards for a meal that didn't need to be cooked. Then again, going by his little light display, his culinary skills probably didn't require the aid of electricity. She took another drink.

Strange, how easily she'd begun to accept certain things—the trick with the candles a minor blip on the inexplicable spectrum. She'd let a man she just met stay with her, had given him free rein over her life, and let him convince her of things she hadn't believed in since she was a kid—even then, she'd had the good sense to be skeptical.

This next drink was in a different league than the others—an assault on her rational mind, and not a moment too soon. If she let herself think about what she'd done, and more importantly, why she'd done it, she would have lost the war with that undying voice. The one that still screamed from the depths of her darkest parts, telling her what she already knew. The one that reminded her of everything she'd lost, and that everything she touched turned to ash.

—

By the time she exited the bath, she almost expected Killian to have given up and gone home. She should've known better. The flames had multiplied in her absence to the point that nearly every surface in her apartment was covered with an array of wax shapes meeting their slow but inevitable ends. It was like the opening scene from a romantic comedy. Or a slasher film. Funny how often those two genres overlapped.

Killian stood at the counter—her apartment's only real dining space—and set two places, looking over with a smile at her approach. "There you are. I was starting to worry I might have to go in after you."

"If you ever walk in on me in the bathroom, I'll finish what I started the day you showed up here."

"Probably shouldn't tell you a bullet wouldn't  _actually_  kill me." He winked at her, and Emma couldn't tell if he was being serious or if he thought his jokes had improved to the extent that she wouldn't answer them with a scowl. It was difficult to care when a mouth-watering aroma tickled her nose. "Hope you're hungry."

"Starving." Emma accepted the fork he offered and dug right in.

"Don't stand on ceremony."

"Wasn't gonna," Emma spoke around a mouthful of pasta, ignoring the way Killian watched her—cautiously amused—before starting in on his own plate.

Once the meal was over, Killian didn't wait for Emma to kick him out, but excused himself under the pretense of having important matters to attend to. He was across the hall and poised to enter his apartment when Emma called his name and he turned around.

"I know I wasn't in the best mood tonight—"

He held up one hand. "No thanks necessary, Swan. Your wish, my command—you know how it goes."

Emma smiled when realizing she'd learned something new about Killian Jones: gratitude made him fidget like a four year old. "Hey." His grin faded slowly when he read her expression. "Thank you."

He nodded and the action erased the final traces of his discomfort. "Anytime."


	7. Chapter 7

_Few things terrified her more than saying, "I love you," but the thought of never seeing him again was worse than her fear that he might not feel the same._

_She'd gladly spend the rest of her days cramped together with him in that stupid yellow bug, sharing food they'd lifted from convenience stores using the fake pregnancy bit. It worked every time, and was great for sympathy cash, too. Especially with couples past what she assumed to be her parents' ages. They'd smile sympathetic smiles at Emma's swollen belly and pull five dollars from their pockets and purses, sometimes ten—she'd gotten a fifty once, from a woman who'd been a teen mom and knew the struggles. Emma had felt guilty accepting it when she remembered she wasn't_ actually _pregnant. It was easy to believe the lie sometimes, if she repeated it enough. Easy to wish it might someday come true…_

_Then her stomach rumbled with an ache that never really went away, simply lessened when she and Neal got a good enough haul that they didn't have to spread their rations too thin._

_She would've endured those pains for as long as he asked her to. Hunger she could handle. But this?_

_He was talking about watches and Canada and leaving her alone._

_So she told him—_

Emma rolled over, wincing for the soreness in her limbs. For some reason every bail jumper she'd caught over the past two weeks had engaged her in a long-distance sprint before surrendering. What did she need with a gym membership when she could spend her days chasing criminals across Greater Boston?

Her legs were freezing, she could already sense the knot her hair had tied itself into, and there was a strong chance her eyes would remain forever bloodshot. She rubbed them free of sleep and sat up to discover that her blanket had abandoned her in the middle of the night.

"Traitor," she said to the jumbled heap on the floor.

Remembering to give the end table a wide berth, she shuffled toward the bathroom to wash up. The mirror paid her no compliments. Not that she expected to resemble a Disney princess first thing in the morning—after all, she was a long way from eighteen. But this was getting ridiculous. Her eyes were more than bloodshot. It seemed they couldn't make up their minds how best to advertise her lack of sleep to the world and had reached some sort of puffy/dark circle compromise.

She switched on the tap to wet her toothbrush, but the water only spat and sputtered before the faucet went dry. She turned the knob a few times, on and off and on again. Nothing.

"Fucking figures."

Her phone's vibration echoed through the quiet apartment and Emma glared at her reflection, knowing it could've only been one person.

—

She didn't bother making herself presentable—he'd seen her look worse. And even if he hadn't, what did it matter what her fairy godfather thought of her?

_"For the last bloody time," Emma suppressed a smile at how hard he was working to rein in his irritation, "I am not now, nor have I ever been a fairy godfather."_

_"I don't know. You could be hiding a set of sparkly wings under those waistcoats."_

"Swan. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Killian held the door open, stepping back to let her by.

"You texted me. Some kind of emergency?"

"Right." She followed him to his fridge, where he plucked a flyer from a helm-shaped magnet and handed it to her. "I may have exaggerated a bit, depending on your definition of  _emergency_."

She wasn't even surprised at this point. She read over the page detailing a holiday Fall Festival later in the day, complete with hayrides and corn mazes for the kids. "You…want to go to the fair?"

Killian snatched the page from her grasp. "If you'll note here at the bottom," he pointed to a bold heading along the edge, bordered by pink and red hearts, "it says,  _'and in the evening, an ideal setting to bring a special someone.'_ "

"You have got to be kidding me."

"I feel responsible for your latest romantic endeavors going amiss—"

"You should."

"—as it's my job—" He gave Emma a sidelong glance when her words registered. "It's my job to ensure these things don't happen, ergo, I've arranged for one of your many online candidates to meet you at this," he flicked the back of the flyer, "festive event.  _If_ …" he cut off her forming argument, "you're up for it. I'll not subject you to anything against your will. But I think it should be taken under advisement that chances like this don't come along every day."

"Yeah, it's more an annual thing." Emma smiled at Killian's mock-glare. If she was being honest, she was moved by his guilt over the tragedy that was her dating life. She almost felt guilty for calling him batshit crazy, even if that was just in her mind. "A date on Thanksgiving? You don't think that's a little desperate?"

"On the contrary, Swan. We're taking advantage of what could be a once in a lifetime opportunity."

"I didn't think they had carnivals this late in the year. Aren't they worried about the weather?" Emma skimmed the bullet points on the page as she considered the fallout of her next great mistake. "I don't know. The last couple guys you picked—"

"Were disasters, yes. There are bound to be a few rotten apples in the barrel—are you going to use that as an excuse to write off the whole lot?"

"You're really getting into this whole seasonal thing, aren't you?"

"Is that a  _no_?"

Emma studied the flyer and then Killian. His earnest eyes dared her not to smile. "Fine. I'll go—on  _one_  condition."

—

Emma paced back and forth along the footpath, kicking pebbles into a small fissure in the earth and adding Killian's name to the list of people who would soon suffer her wrath. He must've caught her in a vulnerable attitude to have talked her into this.

She'd tracked down enough predators to know that most internet sites claiming the ability to find a person's one true soul mate were usually cesspools where the worst of the city's scum collected. And with the last two of Killian's prospects being no-shows, she really didn't see the night ending in her favor. But he'd gotten this puppy dog expression (that in no way melted her heart—if anything, there'd been a  _twinge_  of pity), and he just looked so eager to please that Emma's resolve crumbled and she gave him another chance. His  _last_  chance. If she got stood up again, Killian was going to give her the next week off.

She checked her phone again. Fifteen minutes past the hour. Forty-five past the designated time to meet.

Three dates in as many weeks. Three men who'd given up without even trying to get to know her. It was getting really hard not to take this personally.

With a deep breath—

_Call it what it is, Emma._

With a heavy sigh, she took the first step back toward the main tent.

"Excuse me?" Something brushed her shoulder and she turned around. The man removed his hand and rubbed small circles in his palm with the opposite thumb. He was handsome, early thirties if she had to guess. Dark hair, green eyes. Shy smile. "Are you Emma?"

—

Ethan, it turned out, was nothing like what she'd expected from a computer made match. He was witty, attentive, interesting, with no  _obvious_  signs of internet troll. He bought her hot cider after seeing an involuntary shiver, had offered his coat despite Emma having her own. And he made her smile, which was easier said than done most days.

He hadn't made excuses for being late—or, rather, he hadn't made  _exaggerated_  excuses, and the one he did offer was easily forgiven. Until that morning, Emma hadn't known that park existed either.

Ethan came from a large family, to say the least. He was the youngest of five kids—all girls except him—and this number was considered mild compared to his aunt and uncle's "virtual litter." He was Boston born and raised. Parents divorced but amicable. The entire family still got together for birthdays and barbeques, and it was as though nothing had changed from when he was growing up.

"What about you?"

This was the part she always dreaded about meeting new people, even if she'd learned to check her emotions when she said, "No family that I know of."

"Friends?"

Her automatic response died on her tongue. The one that'd become so ingrained that it was just another fact of life. In the same category as date of birth and social security number. First name, last name, job description—friends? Not since she was seventeen. She glanced over her shoulder, loath to admit that this had changed, even just for the benefit of present company.

_He hesitated, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth as the minutes ticked by, but he agreed to her terms. Eventually._

_"Now that's settled," he said, "what time shall I expect you for dinner?"_

_"Dinner?"_

_"That_ is _the official name for it, as I've come to understand, although it's sometimes consumed as early as midday."_

_"Are you inviting me to have Thanksgiving with you?"_

_"I guess I just assumed…" he scratched behind his ear, seeming nervous. "A great number of past clients hailed from the Land Without Magic, so whenever I'm here during this time of year, it's a privilege to partake in the tradition."_

_"Why do you keep calling it that?"_

_"What?"_

_"The Land Without Magic. Is it the only one?"_

_"Funny story." Killian crossed the kitchen, pulled two mugs from the cupboard above the coffeemaker, and poured each of them a steaming serving from the waiting carafe. "It's actually a misnomer." Returning to the fridge, he came back with Emma's preferred brand of creamer and added a respectable amount to the mug he refused to admit he'd bought for her, even though she was the only one to ever use it. She'd admired it at the coffeehouse one morning when he'd walked her to work, and the next day it was a part of his dining set. He added milk to his own mug and leaned against the counter to continue his tale. "This realm was once as plentiful as any other, but the thing about magic is that much of it is run on belief. The people around here, you may have noticed, are in short supply of blind faith. Scant traces of magic remain but are most often observed only by children." He smiled. "Adults are much too cynical for that sort of thing."_

_Emma sipped her coffee, regretting the turn she'd forced in the conversation. "If I'm going on a date, I need to use your shower."_

_"Something wrong with yours?"_

_"They had to shut off the water—some maintenance issue."_

_Not that they'd bothered to warn her. The horrible woman on the phone claimed there must've been a clerical error because she had record of a notice going out the week before, but the landlord wasn't exactly known for his professional integrity. Emma didn't trust him as far as she could throw him, and the same went for the members of his staff. All out to cover their own asses._

_And how was she the only tenant affected by this supposed malfunction? Was there some kind of target on her back that only malicious forces could see?_

_"You_ are _an unlucky one, aren't you?"_

_"Speaking of…" She had a feeling she'd regret this next turn, too, but that didn't stop her from asking, "Did you ever get around to that 'research' you mentioned?"_

_"Some." Killian took a long drink that made Emma wary. She knew a stall tactic when she saw one. "Still looking into a few things. The short answer is that the universe may be trying to balance itself out in preparation for your happy ending."_

_"Is that…normal?"_

_"Extremely rare, actually. It could simply be that yours is a Happily Ever After well worth the wait."_

_Emma went back to her coffee and Killian did the same. The universe balancing itself out? Throwing a little bad luck her way to make up for a happy ending that would trump all others? Sounded like bullshit made up so she'd feel better, but she appreciated the effort._

_"We've been doing it again," he said later, as they sat opposite each other over a meal Emma would've thought impossible to put together by midday. She was going to have to rethink that word in relation to Killian Jones._

_There was sparkling cider chilling in a bucket by the window, soft music wafting from well concealed speakers, and in the center of a table set for two was a modest candelabra—apparently Killian had a type when it came to lighting._

_"Doing what?"_

_"Staying in. Excluding the 'date that shall not be named,' and this evening's scheduled venture, we've spent nigh on a fortnight holed up in either my apartment or yours—don't get me wrong, this world's take on performance art is unparalleled."_

_"I guess we have fallen into a rut." If binge watching shows while gorging themselves on takeout every night counted as a rut. In the last week or so, Emma noticed that they hadn't been as glued to the TV as they'd been in the beginning, and had instead lost themselves in conversation, swapping war stories, trying to one-up each other with dirty jokes—probably not her smartest move, going up against a pirate in that regard. "But to be fair, I never had this. Being shipped between foster homes growing up, living in my car. I like having the option of staying in." She shrugged, avoiding his gaze as she poked her fork at the mountain she'd made of her mashed potatoes._

_When he didn't say anything, she looked up. The gleam was fleeting, and she only caught a glimpse before it was gone, but she would've sworn she'd seen empathy in his eyes._

_"So, you and your brother, huh? Was it always just the two of you?"_

_"I never knew our mother, and our father hardly merits the mention."_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"Don't be." He watched his fingers drum against the table, the sound muffled by his folded napkin. "Liam was thrust into a unique role at a young age. Forced to be both parent and sibling, and much later, Captain. I didn't always make it easy for him."_

_Whenever he talked about his brother—about Liam—something in Killian changed. It made Emma aware of how deeply he devoted himself to the few souls fortunate enough to call themselves loved ones. His affection, once given, was given forever._

_The list of things he and Emma had in common was steadily growing._

_"He sounds like a remarkable person," she said._

_"He was."_

_"He sounds like you."_

_Killian's smile, though slight, though mildly disbelieving, was pure appreciation for the compliment. "You know, Swan." He leaned back in his seat. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're starting to like me."_

She tried not to sound too defeated when telling Ethan, "One friend."

As much as she grumbled, she'd come to look forward to their late dinners and early coffees and watching Killian discover new worlds of televised entertainment.

Not that she'd ever admit it to his face. His ego was healthy enough without her help.

"Are you guys close?"

She spotted him next to a booth selling pumpkin pie flavored cotton candy. He arched an inquisitive brow and Emma shook her head as subtly as she could. When he pointed to the concession stand one booth over that promised the traditional non-holiday inspired festival fare, she smiled.

"You could say that."

_"Is this really necessary?"_

_"Yes. Now stop whining." Emma employed the reflective back of some kid's balloon to check the brim of her beanie for fly-aways. She wouldn't normally wear one on a date, even with the winter chill that was making an early appearance that year, but with the forecast calling for evening showers, she figured her hair was doomed either way. "Are you clear on the signal?"_

_"Aye."_

_"Good. Make yourself scarce." He went to lose himself in the crowd. "But not too scarce. If I get murdered, I'm coming back to haunt you."_

_His back was to her, but she liked to think that a smile accompanied the small shake of his head. Once this Ethan guy arrived,_ if _he arrived, and Emma discerned whether or not he had homicidal intent, she'd find a way to discreetly tell Killian to_ steal home _. Until that time, he was to maintain a wide perimeter, but not so wide that he couldn't intervene should the need arise._

"The close ones can sometimes feel like family," said Ethan. "In their own way."

_I wouldn't know._

None of them had stuck around long enough to find out. A pattern she feared—a pattern she  _knew_ —wouldn't end with Killian. She thought of her promise not to get attached and took solace in the fact that it was hard to miss someone you couldn't remember. At the same time, she wondered about the permanence of her wish, once it was finalized. What happened after she made up her mind? After Killian left? Did his assurances really mean anything, or was this entire mess just an exercise in futility?

Maybe some people were meant to be alone. Could destiny really be overcome by a simple wish?

Her phone vibrated in her back pocket and she reached for it on instinct.

**_You okay? You look troubled._ **

Emma trained her eyes on the screen and not on the sender of this text.  ** _I'm fine. How's the corndog?_**

**_I don't hate it._ **

As they came upon the midway for the second time, Ethan told Emma to pick the most difficult game with the most extravagant prize and he'd win it for her.

She said, "Maybe  _I'll_  win it for  _you_."

"Competitive." Ethan smiled. "I like it."

They walked side by side, keeping a comfortable distance, as they took inventory of their options. In the end, Emma didn't choose the most difficult game. She chose the one where the reward was a plush white swan that was the size of a small horse. First person to shoot three wooden turkeys in a row was the winner.

They stepped up to their marks, aimed, and just as Emma fired, she felt heat on the back of her neck.

One down on both sides.

They lifted their plastic shotguns to the ready positions and fired a second round, the same warm sensation running like a caress across Emma's skin.

Two down.

She took a deep breath, waited, and let Ethan shoot first.

A deafening buzz and a painted pop-up sign with the word "loser," in all caps.

Anticipation flooded Emma's veins, but she couldn't account for its intensity. Couldn't fathom why nervousness soon followed, lodging itself in her throat, tightening her grip on the toy weapon. The heat wasn't unfamiliar. She'd felt it when Ethan treated her to a soft pretzel outside the main tent, and again when they'd taken a turn on the carousel. She'd looked back at the ring toss to see if her mastery had gone unobserved, and he'd been waiting with a—dare she say  _impressed_ —smile and an approving nod.

The more she thought about it, the more she relished the idea of having an unbiased witness. Someone to share in a postmortem while they snacked on leftovers and caught up on the shows she'd set to his DVR.

It was the screech of sirens and the booth's lights flashing in the wake of her victory that sobered her to the lie she'd been feeding herself all evening. But it was the curiosity of what a certain watcher might think that made her realize her date was over before it began.

—

She found him at the Ferris wheel, leaning over a makeshift fence put in place to keep out animals and small children. He moved a paper cup between hands as he watched the circle of lights make another round. Emma stayed in the shadows longer than she'd intended, smiling at the sight, before making her approach.

"Have you ever tried it?"

"Can't say I have." His smile was faint as he made indentations in the surface of his cup, dragging downward with his thumbs to etch soft lines. "Where's Ethan?"

"Didn't work out." He clenched his jaw, already knowing the answer. "Hey," Emma rested her hand on his arm, where his gaze remained until she spoke again, "don't be so hard on yourself. We parted on good terms."

Ethan had been nice, there was no denying that much. A few years ago, or even a few months, he might've been exactly what she was looking for.

"An improvement over previous suitors, then?"

Emma smiled. She was pretty sure Killian used words like  _suitor_  and  _acquiesce_  and  _malfeasance_  just to mess with her. Not always, but there were times when she was feeling particularly pessimistic that he'd toss a four-syllable term her way simply to distract her.

"I got you something."

Killian took one look at the giant stuffed swan and said, "What the blazes am I to do with that?"

"Put it on your bed, hide it in your closet, leave it to your arch nemesis in your will—they don't really have a purpose."

Killian laughed. "Well, I'm glad the trip wasn't a total loss." He accepted the gift, tucked it under one arm, and held the other out to Emma. "Shall I walk you out?"

"Actually, I…thought we'd stay." She tried to keep the pity from her eyes when seeing the degree to which he was taken aback.

_"You're the first client who's shown an interest in spending time with me…ever."_

"I know how fun chaperone duty can be. I figured you might like to look around. Maybe check out some rides…"

Killian's interest piqued, his eyes drifting toward the Ferris wheel now at his back. "Count me in."

—

"Stop smiling," the artist repeated herself a third time. "Unless you want to leave here looking like a Picasso."

Emma forced her features to be serious, relaxed, smooth as the canvas they presently were. But it wasn't long before they were itching to rebel against the artist's instruction. She supposed it was her own fault for letting her gaze wander back to Killian, whose blatant amusement made him appear all the more adorable.

The imitation fur failed to mask the dark stubble along his jaw, the pink nose and painted whiskers that turned up with his smirk each chipping away at his overconfident air. All he needed to complete the transformation from brooding buccaneer to cuddly white rabbit was a pair of fluffy ears.

He'd taken his revenge, though, she could see it in his eyes, could feel it in every stroke of the painter's brush across her face.

They'd started their adventure at the Ferris wheel and had gone from there to higher risk attractions that were invented for the sole purpose, Emma was convinced, of testing the strength of a person's stomach. Every time she was sure they'd reached the end of the line, there'd be another ride and another, as though the fairgrounds were expanding as they went—until that morning, Emma hadn't known there  _were_  fairgrounds so close to her apartment. And as the night wore on, their surroundings appeared less like a tribute to the holiday they were meant to celebrate, and more like something that might run during warmer months. Eggnog and candied apples were traded for lemonade and banana splits.

She was weirded out at first, but her wonder at these things was forgotten as soon as Killian took her hand and led her deeper into the chaos. They'd raced go-karts and shot crossbows and gotten lost in the haunted house, moving around so much that Emma could scarcely catch her breath. At one point, she'd grown too warm for her coat and couldn't remember where she'd set it down.

_"If you get cold, you can have mine,"_  Killian had said.

Emma was just glad she'd kept her phone in her jeans.

She imagined this was what her teenage years were meant to feel like, the rush of mischief and adrenaline. Laughing too loudly, caring too little, stuffing her face with food she'd regret in her forties. Having a partner to high-five when games were won and to step in on each other's behalf when they weren't, and not giving up until they tasted triumph in the form of a clear plastic bag populated by a single sickly-looking goldfish.

_"Rest assured,"_  Killian had told his new pet— _their_  new pet, he'd corrected,  _"you shall soon receive the proper accommodations."_

The bumper cars were what finally did him in. He'd groaned while massaging his upper thigh and said,  _"I think you dislocated my hip."_  Emma had answered with,  _"Maybe we should've gone with something more age appropriate. I hear senior citizens get a discount at the monorail."_

_"Very funny, Swan." His hand worked its way higher as he limped toward the nearest park bench to sit down._

"All done," said the artist, reaching for a hand mirror to give Emma.

It seemed she and Killian would both be returning home with scruff, even if hers was counterfeit. The eyepatch and artificial scar made her every bit the fearsome pirate.

But Killian gave her a onceover as he rubbed at his chin, and said, "Something's missing."

His search of the face painter's booth came up empty and he left when something outside caught his interest. Emma paid the artist and followed Killian to a stall selling embellished hats. He rummaged through its bins until locating the item he had in mind, and held it up with a flourish.

"There," he said, placing it on Emma's head, "that's better. A hat befitting a captain."

Killian was less than pleased after Emma conducted her own search, but he matched her smile with his own when she secured the headband in place with a giggle, and adjusted the fluffy white ears.

He bowed his head in her direction. "Captain Swan."

Emma responded in kind. "Captain Cottontail."

"What do you say, Love?" He gestured to a photo booth just across the way. "A portrait to commemorate our new personas?"

—

They crammed into the space as best they could, Emma swearing under her breath about the damned things getting smaller every year. She was practically in Killian's lap by the time they found a comfortable position.

"Be mindful of Grandfather's hip, now," he said, which had Emma laughing well into the camera's second flash.

They switched the hat and headband for the third frame, tried and failed miserably to be serious for the fourth. And their high spirits had yet to die down even as they stood outside, waiting for their photos to print.

"What should we name him?" Emma looked to the plastic bag in Killian's hand.

"I thought it best to see if he survives the night. Does look a bit green around the gills, does he not?"

"I'd be surprised if he survives the  _hour_." Turning her attention from the fish they'd probably have to flush once they got home, she saw a different booth in place of the one where they'd had their faces painted, and five more lined up alongside it. "Does it seem like there are more vendors than when we got here?"

Killian followed her gaze. "I suppose there are."

"Kind of late to just be setting up."

He looked at her but didn't say anything.

"What?"

He ran a hand along his jaw in that revealing way of his and Emma could sense the internal struggle. To tell or not to tell. She should probably caution him against playing poker, with all his nervous twitches. "Do you remember what I told you about magic being run on belief?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, not liking where this was going. "Yes…"

Instead of elaborating, he waited for her to draw her own conclusions. To connect the dots that were apparently obvious. She was about to ask him to skip the riddles, just this once, when something stirred in the back of her mind, turning like the key to a door she didn't want to unlock. She started to feel as unwell as their new pet looked when she thought back to the moment between rides. To the suspicion that something wasn't right. To the sense that, despite feeling off, it wasn't as strange as it should've been.

_He continued with his slip of paper, which appeared to have increased in length in the span of ten seconds._

_Emma blinked rapidly to clear her vision and commanded herself to keep it together. Paper didn't grow._

_…in the months to come, she'd remember the instant the script glowed bright as flame and disappeared, the page following soon after, as its true defining moment._

_She heard a sound like the snapping of fingers and then there was light again, softer than fluorescent, warmer—_

"Are you trying to tell me none of this is real?"

"It's entirely real," said Killian. "Since when does the involvement of magic negate the natural laws? If anything, the two are mutually inclusive."

_Oh, God._

She was right. He was delusional. Completely, certifiably batshit crazy.

"When was it you first noticed a change? I'd wager around the time you started to open up and enjoy yourself, for once."

"Enjoying myself isn't the same as believing in magic," Emma insisted, her voice sounding anxious in her own ears.

"Yes, but hope is its own brand of magic. Somewhere between the Ferris wheel and your second snow cone, you started to believe that the circumstances surrounding your life could one day improve, that  _maybe_  you aren't destined for a bitter and solitary end—and  _that_ , Swan, is a vital step forward. No matter how small it may seem. And because of it, the enchantment worked."

"Enchantment? Like a spell?"

He scrunched up his face, tilting his head to one side and then back. "We try to steer clear of the word  _spell_ —has a bit of a negative connotation in most lands."

The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach worsened when she surveyed their surroundings. As though to prove Killian's insane theory, the fair seemed smaller in the aftermath of his explanation, less bright.

If he was crazy, what did it make Emma that she'd been hanging on his every word from the moment he arrived?

Thunder rolled in the distance and, as if by reflex, they both turned their eyes toward the sky. Dark clouds loomed above, moving fast. The first drop of rain coated Killian's cheek and Emma reached to wipe it away, realizing when he looked at her what an odd impulse it had been. The next drop landed on her nose, a third on the hand still touching Killian's face. She swallowed thickly for the expression staring back at her, and was almost grateful for the downpour that broke them of the quiet tension, as swift and as startling as the crack of lightning that came next.

"I take it that's our cue to leave."

Emma turned back for their photographs and secured the strip of black-and-white prints in Killian's jacket pocket, safe from the storm that would follow them home.


	8. Chapter 8

She'd been standing there for ten minutes, but her rambling thoughts made it feel much longer. Made it feel as though an entire day had passed since her trek across the hall. She couldn't be sure that it hadn't. She couldn't be sure of anything anymore, except that she might as well have spent the past ten minutes staring at him instead of his door for all the warmth she could expect from his reception.

They hadn't talked since the incident. Hadn't texted. Hadn't run into each other while out on errands, like one of the meet-cutes specified by her contract.

She closed her eyes, shook her head.  _Incident_  wasn't right, but she couldn't think of anything less ominous to call what'd happened—what'd  _almost_  happened—two nights ago.

What she'd wanted to happen.

That was the thing about temptation, wasn't it? It convinced a person that the wanting was all that mattered, consequences be damned.

It was the wanting that scared Emma most.

_She crossed her arms over her chest, grateful she'd opted for comfort over style when dressing for her date—it would've been just her luck to twist an ankle, destroy another pair of shoes. Even with Killian's jacket, which he'd draped over her shoulders when she'd refused to do it herself—_ "Don't be stubborn. Your teeth are chattering so hard, I'll be amazed you have any left when we get home,"— _she couldn't keep from shaking._

_"Swan!"_

_She picked up the pace, ducking down an alley to circumvent the more populated streets between the fairgrounds and her building. She didn't look back, but she imagined him struggling with the stuffed animal he wouldn't abandon to the elements, even though the rain had effectively ruined it. They'd been wise not to name the fish._

"A proper burial is the least we can do to honor the fallen," _Killian had said._

_Emma had walked away without a word. Without reminding him that "the fallen" was a fucking goldfish that'd been on death's doorstep before it left the tank._

_He called her again, and again she endeavored to put as much distance between them as possible. She was still furious, still a little sick, and not entirely sure the two weren't related._

_She hated feeling like she should've known better, that she_ had _known better and had acted against her instincts. She hated feeling like an idiot, and she'd never felt more like one than she did then, her incensed steps the only reprieve from the racking cold, her mind stuck on the same memory, replaying it over and over like a broken record._

"One friend."

_She'd let herself believe it was true. Let herself cling to the idea that their connection went beyond contractual obligation. That it was real, even if it couldn't last._

_How was she still so susceptible to_ maybe _? Maybe this one is different. Maybe he won't let her down._

"… _maybe_  you aren't destined for a bitter and solitary end..."

It was starting to wear on her nerves, the times she checked her phone only to see the same bright skyline, undisturbed. She'd kept it as a reminder. A warning to carry with her. One of the few defenses she had against the  _maybe_ s in her life.

Given the urgency of their last goodbye, she shouldn't have been all that surprised. It was like they'd been locked in a race. Both fumbling with their keys, avoiding eye contact. Killian's hands had been more nimble—or less frozen—than hers, and he'd slipped into his apartment with a hasty,  _"Goodnight, then."_

Emma had consoled herself with the promise that any lingering awkwardness would disappear by morning, but for someone who could so easily spot a lie in others, she wasn't the most adept at spotting her own.

That was the thing about memory, wasn't it? It played tricks on a person's perception, put a spin on events. Turned slight discomfort into humiliation.

_If she were wise, she'd cut ties and run before things got out of hand, before Killian got under her skin. She'd find her way back to some semblance of normal. If she were wise, she wouldn't have reached the point where her heart sank every time she threatened separation from someone she never should've let into her life. But looking back on every decision she'd made since she was old enough to know her own mind, wisdom was an ally she'd scarcely heeded._

_For fuck's sake, the man made a living preying on pathetic mortals like her. Getting their hopes up, offering things he couldn't possibly deliver. Things no one could._

_It'd all been an illusion. Some scam, some_ spell _._

_"Bloody hell." Catching up with her, Killian closed his hand around her arm and pulled her back. "Swan—"_

_"What?" She wrenched it free as she faced him._

_"I apologize if I upset you."_

_"You didn't."_

_"If that's true, you must have quite the dark side."_

_"I'm_ done _."_

_"With what?"_

_"Everything—wishes and magic and all the other bullshit you've been spewing since you got here—"_

_"Because of the fair?"_

_"Because I don't like being lied to."_

_"Emma," something about the way he said her name, with a reverence, as though it was something precious that careless repetition would tarnish, dared her not to question her rage. It was that sliver of doubt that made him dangerous, "I have never once_ lied _to you."_

_"Seriously? What do you call that whole display back there?"_

_He raked his hand through his hair, slick from the storm. It was then that Emma noticed he'd finally ditched the swan. The plastic bag, emptied of the water meant to keep its inhabitant alive, hung from a belt loop on his jeans. The face paint had washed away, but not without leaving its marks on his shirt._

_"I shouldn't have used magic without telling you—"_

_"What was it, exactly?" She dreaded his response, but she needed to know. For her own sanity if nothing else. Even though his answer might be the final thread to unravel it. What was it about the cavalier manner in which he'd broached the subject—as though it were the sort of inane detail that slowed the momentum of a story—that'd felt like such a betrayal? "What the hell did you…_ do _…to me?"_

_"What did I—?" Understanding widened his eyes. "Is_ that _what's got you so vexed?" Emma had half a mind to lodge her fist in his throat when he laughed. "Nothing—Emma, you have my word. Nothing was done to you. The enchantment was on the fair, itself. The more you shed your inhibitions, the more attractions appeared. I've seen the effect your bad luck has had—"_

_"What effect is that?"_

_"It's draining you, Emma. The light you had when I first met you…" he shook his head._

_She wanted to be relieved, but all she felt was guilt at her overreaction. Her readiness to see the worst in people. Always waiting for their true colors to come through._

_"I only wanted to lift your spirits."_

_"Is that your job, now?" She asked, unable to shake the edge from her voice._

_"Would that be such a terrible thing? Someone showing a modicum of concern for your emotional well-being? Tell me something, Love." As swiftly and as easily as her smiles had come that evening, she couldn't quite manage one when the backs of Killian's fingers stroked her cheek. "When was the last time you made a priority of your own happiness?"_

They'd developed a routine—one of many, it would seem—of walking to the coffeehouse before Emma's shifts. When her car was still in the shop, Killian had accompanied her the full distance to her office— _"Should anything befall you."_  She'd left without him the previous day and her conscience had yet to forgive her. A swell of disappointment seized her when he wasn't waiting at their usual table, armed with a remark about her tardiness. She hadn't realized until it did how large a part of her had hoped to see him there, as if the only obstacle between them was miscommunication.

Radio silence wasn't his style. It had to mean something. She'd been pushing him away since the moment she met him, and she couldn't quiet the fear that she'd finally succeeded.

She checked the time again. If she stayed any longer, she'd be late for work.

She took a deep breath, raised her hand to knock.

_"Do you hear that?"_

It was strange, looking back, because the melody seemed to reach her mind before her ears—it was only after this question that she heard it carried by a breeze that, until this point, had been shrill as it passed between buildings. Shrieking like the witch from her earliest nightmares.

_"It isn't my doing, I can assure you." Killian ran his hand along her arm. Emma assumed he meant to warm her until it traveled farther down, stopping only when it reached the bare skin of her wrist. "May I have the honor?"_

_"Is that a joke?"_

_"I'm being perfectly serious."_

_"I don't dance."_

_"I can teach you." His other hand helped itself around her waist, and Emma didn't recoil. Didn't run. Didn't tell him to keep his hands to himself if he knew what was good for him. "You're trembling._

_"Must be the wind."_

_"Perhaps I should take you home."_

_Emma smiled, her laugh a bit shaky for her taste. "You promised me a dance."_

_He drew her closer, if closer were possible. "I am a man of my word."_

_He started to hum along as he guided their steps in time to the music, and the deep vibrations sent a shiver down Emma's spine. She didn't know if it was the shadow of night, broken only by distant flashes of lightning, or if it was something else, something illicit that'd darkened Killian's eyes. There was a truth trapped inside that moment. One Emma couldn't ignore when Killian's body pressed so near to hers she could feel the hard surfaces his wardrobe didn't do justice. When his cheek grazed hers and the softness stirred memories from a dream she'd tried and failed to forget. When the air around them held a charge that had nothing to do with the storm._

_When the music stopped and neither side let go._

_Her hand helped itself to the valley of his shirt, ready to pull him forward at the first incentive; his tucked the tangled hair behind her ear and moved to cradle the back of her head._

_The longer they remained like this, the longer the quiet weaved sweet nothings like a web through her thoughts, repeating the one word that walked hand-in-hand with ruin._

_She felt herself leaning in, and she wasn't alone—_

Her hand fell to her side and she stepped back. Pocketed her phone. Turned and hurried down the hall without so much as a backward glance.

—

With a final tug, the man in the white coat tied off the thread and cut the excess. He set his tools aside on a metal tray, removed his gloves, and pushed back his chair.

"That should about do it," he said. He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and made notes in Emma's patient file. "You'll need to keep the wound clean and dry to prevent infection. Given the depth of the laceration, I'm hesitant to rule out scarring." Emma jumped down from the examination table to accept the single sheet he tore from the prescription pad. "Come back and see me in five days. And no more street fights." He smiled and Emma replied in kind.

"Thanks."

If she'd been on her game, she would've seen the strike coming and deflected the woman's left hook. But she was getting tired of people running when they found out who she was, and that afternoon it'd made her reckless. This one had done more than run—she'd cornered Emma, baited her with a trap she should've seen coming. If Emma had been on her game, she would've recognized the crazed look in the woman's eyes for what it was, and she would've handled things differently. She would've been smart. Analyzed the situation, worked the scene to her advantage. If she'd been in her right frame of mind, she would've noticed the ring on the woman's middle finger before it was embedded in her cheek.

"You know, Emma." Doctor Kelley looked over at her with a familiar gleam in his eyes. One that nearly had Emma bolting from the room—her instincts had failed her once already, she couldn't afford to lose focus a second time. "Brennan still asks about you."

Emma forced a smile. She never knew what to say when he brought up his son, whom she'd dated—if it could be called  _dating_ —the previous summer. Brennan had been the doctor on call when his dad was at a medical conference in New York, and there'd been an immediate spark. As most sparks do, it'd fizzled once Emma got to know him better.

She was politely dismissive whenever Doctor Kelley brought up Brennan's latest accomplishments, as if to entice her into becoming his daughter-in-law. The last thing she wanted was to sacrifice the arrangement they had, where he was generous enough to see her, no appointment necessary, and thus spare her the misery that was most emergency centers. But she really couldn't care less that Brennan had topped Boston's list of most eligible bachelors. Again.

"You're not seeing anyone right now, are you?"

It was wrong and she knew it. But she had no patience for this line of questioning. "I am, actually."

"Oh?" Doctor Kelley leaned back in his seat, waiting for details that never came. "Does this young man have a name?"

_Oh, God._

It'd been at the edge of her thoughts for the past two days, lying in wait on the tip of her tongue. It was out before she could stop it, before it fully registered in her mind. Like a reflex. She heard it as an echo and wished she could call it back.

"It's quite old-fashioned, isn't it?" Doctor Kelley mulled it over, appearing to debate whether or not any such person existed. "Well, I hope this Killian knows what a fortunate man he is."

"I'm sure he does." Emma backed away, turning once she reached the door. "Thank you, again."

_So much for not losing focus._

The waiting room was empty except for a mother and her child, the latter of which remembered too late to cover his cough. He looked up at his mother with a silent apology and the woman smoothed back his hair, told him it was okay. He'd get it right next time.

Something about the scene made Emma ache. She pushed past the thought and headed for the exit. Her movements were too quick, or too distracted, because she nearly knocked a man to the ground when opening the door.

A man with dark disheveled hair and a shirt that was missing half its buttons. The few that remained had secured the garment to a crooked close. His skin was drained of pigment, his blue eyes rimmed with redness, and the lazy grin he gave her was the most pathetically sweet thing she'd ever seen.

"Killian?"

—

"Impervious to bullets, huh?"

"I'll gladly repay your mockery once the plague has lifted."

Emma laughed as she led him to his couch, a task that was easier said than done in his weak state, half walking, half relying on her for balance. "You don't have the plague."

"Do you know what the plague looks like?"

"Do  _you_?"

"A great deal like this, I'd wager." He waved his hand in front of himself, but his arm was heavy with the weight of the action.

"Let me get this straight—you can make entire fairgrounds grow and turn my apartment into the world's largest fire hazard, but the common cold knocks you on your ass?"

"When I told you there was only one rule a guide must follow…" he bent forward at the waist, laboring to catch his breath.

The stairs had been too much for him—he'd taken one look at them and been on the verge of weeping. Emma refused to accept responsibility for the elevator breaking down the same month that the universe put out a hit on her.

"I misspoke. There are two."

"I'm listening."

"Magic is not to be used for personal gain."

"I doubt this qualifies—look at you. I'm sure your…superiors would forgive you."

Killian closed his eyes as he stood up straight. Then, looking at her, he said, "But there's no sense in you suffering." He raised his hand toward her cheek, rested it briefly on her wound.

Emma ran her fingers over the unbroken skin where her stitches had been, and smiled. "Where were you this afternoon?"

"Dying."

The nurse had been reluctant to let Emma sit in on his appointment, claiming that only family members were allowed back, and Killian had employed a cover that'd proved effective in the past. This time when he said that Emma was his sister, the words were strained. But that could've been an effect of his congestion.

Doctor Kelley had given Emma a strange look—a  _knowing_  look—but he didn't call them out on their deception. When he had Killian remove his shirt so he could listen to his lungs, Emma would've sworn she'd seen the black swirls of a tattoo across his upper back, between the shoulder blades, before her view was obstructed.

Killian collapsed onto the cushions and expelled an exhausted breath.

Emma asked if he wanted to change into sweats, but he was out by the time her sentence was complete. In case he could still hear her, she let him know she'd be back soon. "The pharmacy closes in an hour."

She stood there, reluctant to leave, watching him dream, and wondering if she had any part in them.

_The longer they remained like this, the longer the quiet weaved sweet nothings like a web through her thoughts, repeating the one word that walked hand-in-hand with ruin._

_She felt herself leaning in, and she wasn't alone._

_He breathed her name, and the sound was desperate. Like a plea. But whether for surrender or release, Emma didn't know. All she knew in that moment was the wretched, writhing pull of a beast she thought she'd slain. It rose like a phoenix from the ashes, dared her not to do the same. The hope she'd buried years ago had come to claim her._

_And maybe that was okay—_

_Thunder clapped loudly overhead as the heavens unleashed an onslaught of wind and rain that struck with enough force to pry them apart. The showers were too thick to see through, and cold enough to drive out every thought except escape._

_Killian grasped Emma's hand to guide her through the tempest, steadfast despite the rising flood that swallowed their steps._

_"Can't you do something about this?" Emma shouted, but she feared her voice was lost to the roaring thunder, growing stronger._

_"So now it's magic you want?" Said Killian. "This isn't mine to undo—you'll have to take it up with a higher power."_

_"You wouldn't happen to have their number, would you?"_

Now that she'd had time to process everything, Emma was glad they'd been interrupted—there was no telling where things might've led otherwise. She had a few ideas, and none of them  _friend_ -like. They had a good thing going, her and Killian. For as long as it lasted, she'd do everything in her power to preserve it.

—

She tried to be soundless when reentering the apartment—dark, aside from the glow of streetlamps outside—making her steps light as she crept toward the kitchen, clutching the paper bag that held Killian's prescription. He was in the same place she'd left him nearly an hour ago, softly snoring.

The drugstore had been appropriately packed for the start of flu season, but the wait was more than Emma had anticipated. She'd been sandwiched in line between two groups of teenagers who passed the time by checking their symptoms online to see if they'd been misdiagnosed. By the end of it, at least three of them were terminal. From the pharmacy, she'd gone to the frozen food section and picked up a pint of ice cream—since she and Killian were on speaking terms again, he wouldn't mind if she stored a few things in his freezer.

Sometime the previous night, her fridge had added itself to the list of malfunctioning offenders currently on a mission to break her spirit. She'd be damned if it wasn't working. With each new item to quit on her, she was convinced that soon the only option left would be to lie face down on the floor and wait for death.

"Liam? Is that you?"

Emma didn't answer. She stopped in her tracks and hoped that the silence would lull him back to sleep.

"I dreamed of the most beautiful woman—Brother, you should have seen her."

"Killian—"

"Her smile was like sunshine and starlight and the open sea. Bloody amazing."

Giving up her efforts not to disturb him, she shrugged off her coat and resumed her course to the kitchen. She didn't know why, but she found this new trait of his endearing. She hadn't known many people who talked in their sleep—not that she'd stuck around long enough to find out. She wondered if it was a regular occurrence, or just another symptom of his fever.

He'd mentioned in the waiting room at the doctor's office that he hadn't been this sick since he was a boy.

_"Not much older than that lad, there." Emma followed his gaze to the child seated with his mother. "Liam would make a fuss in front of the crew, call me a landlubber who'd left his sea legs ashore. But it was all for show. Couldn't have them getting the idea to shirk their duties and fake ill." Killian smirked, resting his head back against his chair. "Things were different when it was just the two of us. He never let me fall asleep without a proper bedtime story—tad sentimental, if you ask me."_

Emma grabbed a glass from the cupboard above the sink, filled it with water, and left it on the coffee table while she went to Killian's room for a blanket. Whenever she was sick, her fever turned to chills somewhere around three a.m.

It was a surreal sort of thing, entering a person's bedroom without their knowledge. Emma swore her motivations were pure. Selfless, really. In the aid of a friend.

But that was the thing about curiosity. It took the shape of innocence. Masked its true intent. Insisted it was okay to snoop, just the once.

Bookcases lined the far wall, but they housed no books, only folders piled on top of each other like unsolved case files. There was a nightstand with a lamp, another folder open at its base. It was a clean space. Tidy. Nothing out of order. No unnecessary furnishings or decorations. No wall hangings.

Emma paused a foot from the bed.

_"Will you be helping me pick that out, as well?"_

_"I'm not gonna test drive it with you, if that's what your eyebrow is insinuating."_

Advancing slowly, she traced the quilted pattern of a navy bedspread. Then, in one swift move, before her imagination could run away with itself, she pulled the blanket clean off and returned to the living room.

She sat on the floor by the couch and tried to think of something that might soothe Killian as he slept. A tale like his brother used to tell.

In the fashion of her favorite fairytales, she started her story with, "Once upon a time…"

It was one he'd probably heard a dozen times over. Little lost girl alone in the world. Wayward child who didn't belong. Didn't matter. Didn't think she ever would.

"Until the day she made a wish, and a fairy godfather appeared to her." Emma held back a laugh, knowing the argument he'd make if he were conscious. "He talked funny, this fairy godfather. Always going on about magic and make believe and hope. Things the lost girl had dreamed about when she was still young, and could still envision a family that loved her and didn't want to give her up." Emma cleared her throat before continuing. "The lost girl was sometimes grumpy with her fairy godfather, and maybe he thought she was unkind. But the truth was…" she took a deep breath. "The truth is, he's given her something she hasn't had in a very long time. And that terrifies her."

"Emma…" Killian whispered but didn't open his eyes. "That was her name."

Emma smiled nervously, certain he'd been pretending to sleep. She didn't know if she should be embarrassed about what she told him, or if she should be proud of herself for making an effort to open up, unorthodox as it was.

Then Killian said, "I should've kissed her."

—

The next day, when his fever broke and his vision cleared and he looked at her the way he always had, when he spoke with no memory of his confession, Emma began to question whether she'd heard him correctly.

Maybe their dreams had overlapped somehow. Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe it was wishful thinking, an attempt to assuage her guilt—if his desires were equal to her own, then maybe the blame wouldn't fall solely on her, the way blame often did.

She made him breakfast and he conveyed his gratitude for all she'd done to help him and they fell effortlessly into old habits. One meal became two became seven. Rain was traded for snow, one holiday for the next, and soon the  _incident_  was all but forgotten. Its memory faded, the way some memories do, their edges worn down, indistinct. Emma wondered if it, too, had truly happened the way she'd once thought, or if stress had taken an unforeseen toll. Killian was right—prolonged bad luck could drain a person.

She'd overreacted, that much was clear. Maybe it was a symptom of heightened emotion. Maybe it was the inherent nature of darkness, of bodies pressed together in the cold. Maybe it was loneliness, come to prey upon them.

Whatever else it was, it was fleeting. A one-time impulse. A mistake.

Then again, maybe the easiest lies to believe were the ones she told herself.

_She kept the box on a shelf in her room. For the last year, it'd sat untouched, collecting dust amidst the paperbacks she'd get around to reading one day._

_Removing Killian's jacket, she reached into the side pocket for the strip of photos, still dry save for a few spots. She added it to her collection of keepsakes, tucked between her old glasses and a Polaroid snapshot it was probably foolish to hold onto. With a quiet sigh, a final glance, she closed the lid on what could have been._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the comments, guys, and for being patient when updates take a few weeks. And for those who were confused about the flashbacks in the last chapter, thank you for being kind about letting me know. Hopefully things'll be a bit clearer going forward :)

She couldn't have guessed what it would be, or that it would irritate her as much as it did, but the lie Emma had been waiting for finally came.

Things had returned to normal between her and Killian—as normal as things ever were between her and Killian—and stayed uneventful for the first month after the  _incident_. There'd been an unspoken agreement that the best course was to move on, pretend it never happened. Pretend it hadn't almost happened again the night of New Year's Eve.

Ten seconds to midnight, the bar had begun breaking into pairs and counting down.

Emma had looked to Killian, her hand tightening like a vise around her drink, and it'd been like the night of the fair all over again, the two of them trapped by a tension too troubling to name. Killian had been the first to break, smiling a sobering smile when he said,  _"Happy New Year, Swan."_

 _"_ _Happy New Year."_  Emma had tapped her bottle to his and emptied its remaining contents in a single swig.

The next day Killian was completely indifferent to her, in what would turn out to be a pattern of distant behavior. He stopped meeting her for coffee, stopped inviting her over after work, stopped texting her nonsense at what should've been inconvenient hours—given her insomnia, she'd come to appreciate his discovery and incessant recycling of internet memes. Suddenly he was all business, all the time, like he was detaching himself from her in preparation for their inevitable end. A bit premature, but Emma couldn't fault him—she'd had thoughts of doing the same. But whenever they interacted anymore, she got the distinct impression he was keeping something from her.

It was hypocritical to be bothered, she knew, considering the secret she'd been keeping from  _him_. One she couldn't exactly share with him in his current state. Killian in a good mood would've been frustrated, but dark, broody,  _"can we please focus on the task at hand"_  Killian? Suffice it to say, Emma wasn't in a hurry to disclose the fact that she'd been cancelling her dates in favor of doing literally  _anything_  else. Most often, this translated as her catching a late movie by herself and returning home armed with an array of excuses as to why another potential match hadn't lived up to expectations.

This was the first night in weeks that Killian had deigned to spend unscheduled time with her, and Emma was having regrets about asking him over. He spent the majority of the evening distracted by his phone and showing a strong disinterest in conversation. She tried talking about her day, had inquired after his, the only responses to which had come in the form of monosyllabic grunts.

She looked across the couch at him, still gripped by whatever he was reading. "Don't you want to see the end?"

"Hm?" His eyes flitted briefly to the television. "Already seen it."

"Liar," Emma's tease was met with no reaction. "Okay, seriously? What is so interesting that you can't turn away for two seconds?"

"Nothing, just re—"

"Research, yeah, I heard you the first ten times."

"It's a wonder you keep asking."

Emma frowned, seeking solace from the film she'd been certain would've held his attention, what with the overabundance of pirates on the cover. "Look, if you don't want to be here—"

"When did I say I didn't want to be here?"

"You aren't exactly subtle with your nonverbal cues."

He sighed dramatically and clicked off his phone. "Satisfied?"

"You don't have to be an ass about it."

"A man can't fight his nature forever."

" _What_  is your problem?"

He gave her a vacant look. "Problem?"

"You're obviously pissed at me about something."

"Am I?"

Emma could feel the scowl reshaping her features, and she resented his bad mood for inciting hers. She crossed her arms and resolved to ignore him until he got the hint to leave. A plan that lasted all of five minutes.

Since she had him here and since she doubted his annoyance level could get much higher, she figured she might as well get some information out of him before he cut off all contact that wasn't strictly wish-related.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You're going to anyway."

"What are those folders in your room?"

It was probably none of her business, and she could handle it if he told her as much, but her curiosity had gotten the better of her after her first and only glimpse inside his bedroom. The sheer volume of files had led her imagination down increasingly improbable avenues.

Were they part of the whole fairy godf—guide thing? A catalog of spells? Did Killian moonlight as a private investigator for sketchy businessmen?

He looked at her, really and fully for the first time in weeks, his eyes so intense they tested Emma's confidence. Then he shrugged, forced a smile—a gesture severely compromised by the unfriendly gleam his eyes had yet to relinquish—and said they were a means of checking up on old clients. "I like to know that their happy endings are everything I promised they would be."

"I don't believe you." Emma spoke lightly enough, but even she couldn't ignore the inherently insulting nature of this statement.

She didn't know what offended her more, the fact that he'd waited three months to prove that no one was above dishonesty, or that he actually expected her to be fooled by his piss poor attempt at deception. If he'd been made of wood, his nose would've been a mile long.

Killian reached for his phone, as though the device would shield him from Emma's interrogation, scrolling through its contents with swift brushes of his thumb. "Color me astonished."

Emma covered the screen with her hand, prompting another sigh. "What are you hiding?"

"Did it ever occur to you, Swan, that I prefer to keep some things to myself?"

"You could've just said that."

Making a point of meeting her eye, he said, "I prefer to keep some things to myself," and wriggled his hand out from under hers. "Which you of all people should understand."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Not entirely forthcoming, are you?"

"You think I lied to you?"

"You tell me."

Emma knew this trick—she'd used it herself when extracting information from people. Let them believe she knew their secrets and wait for paranoia to eat away at them. They'd eventually spill their guts.

"What's the matter, Love? Don't enjoy being on the receiving end of your own accusation?"

She bit back a harsh reply, sensing that it was precisely what Killian wanted. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to pick a fight with me."

"Then it's a good thing you know better."

"If something concerns me, I want to know."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Killian."

"Look, Swan, neither of us is going to leave here with the answers we want, so what do you say we call it a night before anything is said we can't take back?" He got up from the couch and crossed to the kitchen, grabbed his jacket from where it was draped over the counter, and cut a marked course for the door.

"All that tells me," said Emma, following him, "is that there's something you want to say that you think will upset me."

He stopped walking but didn't respond. The doorknob was well within reach—if he cared to, he could've ended the conversation, given them both time to cool off before seeing each other again. Instead, he turned to face her.

"Well?"

"I know what you've been doing, Emma. Where you've been going this past month when you say you're somewhere else."

Refusing to feel ashamed for her actions, or for the fact that she'd been caught—as though Killian were someone she was accountable to—Emma leveled a hardened stare. "So you've been, what, spying on me?"

"No, I've not been spying on you—I haven't needed to."

"Did it ever occur to you that I prefer to keep some things to myself?"

Killian scoffed. "So when someone lies to you, no matter his justification, he's forevermore untrustworthy, but when you lie it should be forgiven because it's done in the name of self-preservation?"

"I didn't say that."

"Some things don't need to be said."

She'd never seen him angry. Not with her. It both unsettled and enraged her. Despite his insistence to the contrary, this degree of bitterness didn't stem from something as shallow as a few white lies.

"What's in the folders, Killian?"

"You're not ready."

"Who the hell are you to decide what I'm ready for?"

"I didn't. You did." His ire waned and he looked truly regretful of what he was about to admit. "You said you didn't want to know."

Emma's stomach twisted as a strange foreboding took hold. "All the research you've been doing…"

"Aye."

She tried to quell the hopeful part of herself, but it drowned out all rational thought. "What did you find?"

He averted his eyes, and with this action Emma's optimism fizzled. "Nothing yet. Even with the resources available to me…" he shook his head, letting his words trail off.

"I asked you not to look for them."

"I know."

"I told you it wouldn't lead anywhere."

"I know."

"Why didn't you listen?" Emma's voice had risen so that she was on the verge of shouting.

Killian replied in kind. "I knew there would come a day when you changed your mind, and I wanted to be able to give you answers. I wanted your happy ending to be everything you've dreamed of your whole life—"

"That isn't your choice to make."

Emma felt a swell of emotion—hatred and heartbreak and the unfairness of it all. Even with supernatural intervention, she was no closer to finding her parents than she'd been at eleven or eighteen or twenty-five. If Killian had been researching them, that meant he'd been researching  _her,_ and she knew what he must've found.

"You weren't just looking for my parents, were you?"

He hesitated to answer. When he did, he almost resembled his old self again, only more contrite. "No."

Emma walked around him, to the door, and held it open. He nodded and stepped through, turning back once he was outside.

"Emma—"

She slammed the door closed, cutting off his apology before it could form.

—

Deep breath, Emma. No need to run this time.

_She never did this. Okay, so she did this—quite frequently, in fact, before the impossible turn her life had taken. But she never felt guilty about it. She didn't regret the act itself, which had been the sort of incredible that tempted her to wake the stranger in her bed so they could engage in a repeat of the previous night. But when she thought about telling Killian, her stomach tied itself into knots—which was beyond ridiculous. Wasn't this what he'd been pushing her towards?_

_Maybe one night stands weren't the sort of romance he'd had in mind, but it was something, wasn't it? A step in the right direction? Especially after an entire month of going to the movies by herself and hoping her guide didn't find out she was cancelling every date he arranged._

_Emma smiled at the soft snoring, the tousled mop of dark hair lying face down on the mattress, the sheets pulled low across his back. Where half her pillows had gone, she didn't know. Didn't care. Last night was something of a dream, and she wasn't ready to wake up._

_The bed shifted as he rolled from his stomach onto his side and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He turned to Emma with a lazy smile, and she sat up with a gasp, holding the blanket up to her chin to hide what he'd already seen._

_"_ _Morning, Love," he said, his smile widening at her self-conscious display._

 _"_ _What the hell are you doing here?"_

_With the suggestive curve of his smirk came a flood of memories that made Emma's cheeks flame. "Would you care for a reenactment?"—_

Emma blinked rapidly against the darkness, waiting for her vision to clear. It took a few sleepy seconds to remember why there was no light. After Killian left, she'd come back to the living room to find the TV switching between channels on its own. When she'd reached for the remote, feeling as though a fire had been ignited under her skin, the power cord sparked, starting at the outlet and singeing a trail. Then the screen went black.

It was probably a bad sign that Emma was getting used to things letting her down.

She padded her way through the shadows to the kitchen, pulled a bottle of water from the fridge she'd convinced Killian to fix for her by swearing that his superiors would never learn he'd employed non-essential magic, and tried to recall what'd woken her. It had been happening more often in recent weeks—restless sleep, unremembered dreams. Whatever her subconscious was working through, she hoped it would get on with it already. The last time she'd slept without interruption, there'd still been leaves on all the trees.

When the room was suddenly coated in dim light, Emma turned to see her phone on the counter, showing a new alert. No doubt the text she'd been expecting—she was surprised Killian's conscience had let him hold out this long. But when she tapped the screen, she didn't recognize the sender's name.

**_You can't ignore me forever, Jones._ **

No wonder she hadn't heard it vibrate. Killian kept his phone on silent.

Its presence in her apartment made her feel ill-at-ease. Or maybe it was the thought of seeing him again when he came looking for what was his. Maybe it was the earliest traces of something that started to bleed through her denial—a surrender she wasn't ready to make. An acceptance of reality.

She was dressed and out the door in under ten minutes, in need of fresh air.

—

It was the first clear night Boston had seen in weeks. Emma loved how bright the stars were after a heavy storm, as though the heavens had been cleansed of every impurity. The wind, she could've done without, but it seemed intent on staying. She pulled her coat to a tighter close and continued down the unpopulated street.

Like a reflex, a wish readied itself when a shooting star streaked across the sky, but Emma was loath to make it. Would Killian know? Did he have some built-in alarm system that was triggered by the magic words? If she asked the star for a grilled cheese, would Killian bring one to her door?

Still haunted by the story he'd told her the day they met, Emma imagined him in the moments leading up to his own wish. From what he'd described, he'd been in a place similar to hers—alone with his longing, weighed down by disappointment. How must he have felt when someone appeared to him the way he'd appeared to Emma?

 _"…_ _I've come to deliver your happy ending."_

As crazy as he'd seemed at the time, as crazy as Emma sometimes still felt, there'd been a brief flicker of excitement. She'd made a wish and he was there to grant it.

How had they broken the news to him that his was a special case? Did they wait for the ink to dry on a contract he didn't read before shackling him into a position of centuries-long servitude? Or did they string him along, feeding him bits of hope as they led him into a trap?

 _Damn it._  Why did every thought come back to him?

Emma couldn't even see a shooting star for what it was. It had to dredge up painful memories that didn't even belong to her.

She must not have watched where she was walking—paying too much attention to the sky and not enough to her path—because she was nearly toppled by a fellow pedestrian passing in the opposite direction.

He reached for her, helped her find her balance. "Pardon m—Swan?"

Of all the people to run into in the middle of the night on a deserted sidewalk, it had to be the one she was actively trying to avoid. Emma accepted the omen his appearance clearly was and knew better than to expect any mercy from a universe she was surprised didn't just smite her and get it over with.

"We've got to stop meeting like this."

Still grasping her arms, still standing too close, Killian smiled. It was the cautiously hopeful smile of a person acutely aware of how badly they'd fucked up.

Emma knew he was riddled with remorse—not for what he'd done, but for failing to produce the desired results. If she was being truly honest with herself, she wasn't as angry as she was terrified by the effort he'd put into something he thought would make her happy. No one had ever wanted the things she wanted for herself, let alone gone about getting them. Not even the person who first promised her a home.

She wasn't used to someone doing things for her without an agenda.

And if she was being truly honest with herself, there were parts of her past she didn't want Killian to know about. She didn't want him to look at her the way people often did. She didn't want him to see her the way she saw herself.

"Emma, about earlier—"

"Forget it."

"It was never my intention to hurt you."

"I know."

Emma let the quiet prolong his internal angst a bit before she smiled. Killian breathed easier once she did.

He said, "May I escort you home?"

"On one condition."

"Name it."

"You have to finish that movie with me—and actually  _watch_  it."

He studied her for a moment, dumbfounded. "I'm…not sure I heard you correctly."

"Look, I'm not saying I forgive you. But I'm not saying I never will."

Killian held out his arm, which Emma linked with hers. "Then I happily accept your terms."

"No pointing out historical inaccuracies."

"I take it back."

"And we have to use your TV."

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not."

—

The old woman from down the hall was leaving her apartment just as Killian and Emma were entering his. She passed them with a glare and something mumbled under her breath. Emma didn't need to hear her words to guess at the sentiment behind them.

"Mrs. Pasternak," Killian greeted her.

The old woman gave him a strange look and continued on her way.

"You know her?" Said Emma.

"Only by reputation."

Something was off about his answer—not quite a lie, not the complete truth—but Emma didn't press him about it.

Once inside, Killian prepared the hot chocolate he'd offered as an extra incentive for Emma to forgive him, while Emma set her place on the couch, having absconded with his comforter a second time. She noticed when taking it from his room that his shelves were now empty, and she wondered if this was in response to their evening's argument.

They were midway through a second serving of her favorite winter beverage when the silence—though infinitely more comfortable than a few hours ago—finally got to her.

"You found my record, didn't you?" She said.

"I did."

His answer should've had no effect on her—she'd known what it would be—but confirmation had the unfortunate habit of making things real.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really." She looked down at the mug in her hands—her mug—and traced the curve of its handle with her thumb. "Have you ever made a decision you knew was right at the time but you regretted it ever since?"

"Aye."

He got that expression Emma had come to recognize as relating to Liam. Killian had never divulged the specifics regarding his brother's passing, but whenever he talked about it, the  _way_  he talked about it, Emma couldn't help inferring that he blamed himself for what happened.

"I knew if I saw him, I'd change my mind," she said. "Sometimes I wonder what our lives would've been like if I had. What kind of mom I'd be. I don't even know if he got my hair or my eyes. My trust issues." She laughed softly to herself and Killian smiled. "Sometimes I wonder if he wonders about me."

Did he cry himself to sleep at night, running through all the possible scenarios that'd culminated in her giving him up?

 _No_ , she reminded herself. He had a family. He wasn't in the system like she was. He had people who loved him and would give him his best chance at life.

"Kid probably dodged a bullet."

"Emma, look at me." It wasn't until Killian's voice cut through her trance that Emma realized she'd said these things aloud—for so long they'd kept her captive with the same lure that'd convinced her to sign an entire year away.

 _What if_ she'd just glanced across the hospital room?

 _What if_ she'd kept him?

She must've been sleep-deprived to have let her guard down, let them slip out.

"You are so much more than you believe about yourself. This horrible person you've built up in your mind—this woman who is so unworthy of affection? She doesn't exist."

"Easy for you to say—you barely know me."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

She wanted to say,  _"No."_   Wanted to tell him that he knew her better than anyone ever had. But she'd already confided more than she meant to, and it left her feeling raw. Vulnerable. Exposed.

"Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?"

If he'd asked her that same question three hours earlier, she would've declined. But every trace of the man he'd been then, and for the weeks preceding, had disappeared. He was once again the Killian she'd come to know.

"I see someone who's overcome every obstacle she's ever faced. Someone with deep scars, who still chooses to see the good in people. I see someone who hasn't let the world rob her of compassion. You may be stubborn and sarcastic and ill-tempered—"

"Hey."

"But you're also a person of remarkable strength. And one day you'll meet someone who makes your struggle almost seem worth it, someone who makes you want to run toward a future instead of away from the past. One day, Emma, you'll find someone who looks at you and sees home." His gaze faltered as tension formed in his jaw. Whatever he sought to hide vanished from his eyes before he regarded her again. Then he smiled. "I also see someone who's witnessed magic firsthand and still considers it fiction."

Emma shrugged one shoulder. It felt like calling him a liar, like calling  _herself_  a liar after all she'd seen, but, "The way I grew up, there were no magical solutions to your problems. You either fixed them yourself or you let them drag you under. If you were lucky enough to find some small happiness, you cherished it before it was gone—don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you pity me for being some poor broken mortal."

"I don't pity you, Emma."

"I am perfectly well-adjusted, thank you."

"Well, I wouldn't say  _that_."

"I'm pretty sure no one asked you." Killian laughed and Emma sipped her hot chocolate, finding it no longer hot. "Killian?"

"Hm?" If his grimace was any indication, he was in the midst of the same discovery about his own drink.

"You weren't really mad about the cancelled dates, were you?"

"No." He smirked. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but you're a terrible liar."

"You knew the whole time? Why didn't you say anything?"

"I assumed your conscience would eventually get the better of you."

"So much for your intuition." Emma set her mug aside. "So why  _were_  you mad?"

Killian ran his hand along the base of his neck. "You were right—I was trying to provoke a quarrel in the hopes that it would create some…distance between us. But I must apologize. The way I handled things was…indelicate."

"If you needed space, you could've just told me."

"I guess I was looking for a way to turn it around on you—shift the blame, as it were."

"Can I ask why you didn't want to be around me anymore?"

He took a deep breath, averting his eyes. "Do you remember the night of the carnival?"

"How could I forget? My archery game was on point."

Killian smiled, then just as quickly fell serious again. "After you and I danced, I uh…I…wanted to kiss you. I  _would_  have kissed you, had the weather not intervened."

Emma didn't answer but felt her heart skip a beat.

"That's never happened to me."

"Did your brother not have 'the talk' with you?"

"You know what I mean, Swan—with a client."

"You've never been tempted?"

"Not once." He still wouldn't look directly at her. "Standard protocol in this situation would be to file an incident report and have your case reassigned, but I fear at this point that would only set you back. If you're comfortable with me staying on as your guide, I'd prefer to keep this matter between us."

Emma smiled. "I can do that."

Killian returned his attention to the movie, but something—everything—about his posture was uneasy. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands moving his mug in small circles across the coffee table, like he was suffering the aftereffects of oversharing.

"Killian?"

When he looked at her, she was nearly robbed of courage.

But she ignored the warnings that pulsed in her veins as every part of her cautioned against what she was about to do. This— _this_ —was the time to run. "I wanted to kiss you, too."

They were locked in a silent stare, both hesitant, both waiting for the floor to open up or the walls to break apart. Waiting for a sign. As if one were needed to know that this was wrong.

When no catastrophe came, Emma decided to put them both out of their misery. She grabbed a handful of Killian's shirt and pulled him forward, not grasping the gravity of her actions until it was too late.


	10. (Pt 1)

It started slow, a kiss wrought of uncertainty, both sides still holding their breath, still waiting for the worst to happen. Bracing themselves for the fallout of a forbidden impulse. But consequence was forgotten as they succumbed to a pull they'd been fools to ignore. Killian could only attest to his own struggle, of course, but if Emma's actions were anything to go by, he wasn't alone in his longing. She drew Killian closer, persuaded him deeper, and seemed to revel in the sounds that accompanied his surrender.

His better judgment, what began as a booming, berating voice in the back of his mind, faded to near nonexistence. The responsible thing would've been to tell Emma it was a mistake, to warn her of the hell they'd inevitably pay—the rules were put in place for a reason, and his superiors didn't take kindly to defiance. But how could he when something—everything—about it felt… _right_? Felt like—

Killian forced himself to break contact, cursing his conscience the instant his lips were his own. "That was…that…"

He'd be lying if he said that night in the rain was the first time he'd thought about it. The first time he'd been tempted. If anything, the reality should've sated him, should've slaked his craving. But one taste wasn't enough—he wanted all of her, all at once.

It was this desire that held him back, even as her mouth chased his, and untangled him from her embrace. "I shouldn't have done that."

"You weren't the only one."

All that talk of the fair and of finding her perfect match, of never feeling about another client the way he felt about Emma…

He raked his hand through his hair, a pale substitution for hers. He could still feel the paths her fingers had forged, and he dreaded the hours their memory would torment him.

…what must she think of him?

She'd been the one to initiate it, but she was hardly the one at fault. Killian had all but begged her to pounce.

"It was just a kiss." This came as more of a question than a statement, as though Emma were trying to convince herself by putting a voice to her doubt.

Killian didn't search her eyes for confirmation of this, knowing he'd not survive the aftermath of what else he found staring back.

He should've known he was in trouble from the moment Emma Swan fired a shot into the dark and promised that the next time she wouldn't miss. And perhaps he had. Perhaps he'd purposely confused that pull—that once subtle ache he'd allowed to grow, allowed to fester until it was as untamed as the power he'd never wanted to possess—for a lesser offense.

"Where I come from, there's no such thing. You have no idea the penalty—"

"It was just a kiss," she said again, more confident this time. And maybe, for her, the  _just_  was rightly placed. "If you're afraid I'm going to mistake a moment of weakness for Happily Ever After, then you can relax. It's out of our systems, so no one has to suffer anyone else's wrath, or…whatever."

"I wish it were that simple."

"Careful," Emma chanced a smile, the sight of which softened the edges of Killian's panic, "I hear wishing can be tricky business."

How the bloody hell she was capable of calming him so quickly—

Well that was part of the problem, wasn't it?

He should've known he was in trouble that day on the beach when she'd tried to comfort him through distraction. He'd never talked about Liam with anyone—not even the sailors who'd called them both  _Captain_ —but something about Emma Swan had made him unafraid of the ghost that'd haunted him for more years than any soul should live.

"I'm pretty good at keeping secrets." She smiled again, and it might've masked the disquieted tone to her voice were her eyes not as full of fear as Killian felt.

She blinked it away in that frustrating fashion of hers, until all that remained was a challenge Killian would've been wise to decline.

He should've known he was in trouble the first time he'd wanted to answer a question her eyes shouldn't have been asking. She'd been unable to look directly at him, and when she did, when the striped and spotted furniture sets lent little aid, her interest locked on a single feature—much like now.

He should've known he was in trouble a thousand times over.

And perhaps he had.

Perhaps this line warranted crossing.

At the very least, Killian was willing to find out. He leaned forward with every intention of finishing what they'd started—

_"Who did you tell, Killian?"_

_"I didn't tell anyone."_

_"Do you expect me to believe that?"_

_"It's the truth."_

_Alistair turned a tortured look upon him, one that veered abruptly toward disgust. "And what would a man like you know about that? You fancy yourself a changed man, but deep down you're the same degenerate you were when I found you, drinking yourself stupid over your brother's death."_

_Killian didn't take the bait—it wasn't his mentor talking. These were the words of a man who'd been unmade by the same institution that'd molded him. "They let you live." It was a paltry offering, but it was all Killian had. "I know it may seem a small consolation, in light of events, but you'll be glad of it one day."_

_"Bugger off, Jones, and take your platitudes with you. I've no heart for them anymore." He kicked the door to slam in Killian's face—_

He stopped just shy of his target, resting his forehead against Emma's. "Swan…"

She must've gleaned his decision from this single utterance, scarcely louder than a whisper and laced with a reproach he hadn't intended, because she was on her feet and across the room before Killian registered the empty place she'd left behind.

"I should go," she said.

"You don't have to."

"I have an early day tomorrow."

Killian nodded, at a loss for an excuse as to why she shouldn't leave.  He walked her the rest of the way to the door, where she lingered, hesitant to clear the threshold.

It was all he could do not to forsake his oath, insist she stay, when Emma smiled a fake smile and said, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he answered the door she locked loudly enough for him to hear. "Love."

—

The lamp burned low but it was sufficient for his needs. The parchment, ancient by any realm's standards, was too delicate for an excess of light.

Killian set the page aside, returning it to the stack at the table's opposite end, and rubbed his eyes, strained from study. He'd pored over texts for so long, the words started to blend together. He leaned back in his chair, stretching muscles that hadn't moved in at least an hour.

He'd been an avid reader all his life, something Liam liked to tease him about when Killian was still a boy.  _"Shall I swab the deck, then? While you're off slaying dragons and rescuing damsels?"_  But whenever they pulled into port, Killian would find a new book added to his collection, placed among the others as though by magic. When Killian went to thank his brother, Liam would give him a blank expression and ask him what he was on about this time. Then he'd wink and order Killian back to his quarters.

That night the pastime had less to do with enjoyment than it did with escape. He couldn't sleep for thinking about Emma. About the way she looked when she'd left his apartment. He couldn't help feeling that he'd wounded her somehow. Rejected her. His mind drifted back to the challenge in her eyes, daring him to act against his own warnings. Take a leap of faith.

He could only imagine what she thought of his superiors—nameless, faceless entities whose reign bordered on nonsensical. They weren't real to her. If something wasn't real, how could it be a threat?

For Killian, the threat was very real. Not just to himself, but to her. If the council caught wind of what he'd done, they wouldn't stop with just  _his_  head.

Fortunately, guides weren't as closely monitored when on assignment as they were within the boundaries of the council's domain—unless one was under active investigation on suspicion of impropriety, the council relied solely on status reports filed at the end of each term. Such was their claim, anyway. Killian had learned the hard way how invasive their tactics could be, and he didn't fully trust their motives. Not as he once did. He wouldn't put it past them to pull a person's memories for inspection, if it suited their endgame.

He wondered, and not for the first time, if this had been their method of uncovering Alistair's plan. If his thoughts, as guarded as he'd come to keep them, had been his mentor's undoing. If he'd unwittingly testified against him.

_It wasn't your fault_ , he told himself for the hundredth time in as many years. And for the hundredth time, his words rang hollow. Doubt crept up in their place. Maybe it was merely the shadow of a thought, not fully formed, or the ghost of something forgotten but never erased. Maybe the council had gone so far as to sift through dreams and Killian's unconscious had intimated something he wasn't aware of.

They had to have read his mind, read  _someone's_. The timing was too convenient to be coincidence.

Then again, maybe it was nothing at all, and paranoia had simply deemed him a suitable plaything.

He didn't know. And the not knowing drove him to guilt. Self-condemnation. That, and the fact that Alistair never looked at him the same way after the council's ruling.

Killian's phone lit up with an alert, and not a moment too soon. His thoughts could do with an interruption.

One of the newest recruits assigned to him had encountered a low level emergency, but with this particular recruit it could've been something as trivial as a broken shoelace. She was still in that stage of apologizing after every message, terrified of disturbing her instructor and incurring his wrath.

Killian smiled down at the screen before dialing her number.

"Mr. Jones, hi, so sorry to bother you at this hour." She sounded frantic. Killian envisioned her wringing her hands while pacing back and forth to summon her courage.

"It's no bother, Charlotte. What's the emergency?"

"Do you remember that problem I had a couple weeks ago? And a couple weeks before that?"

"The town that doesn't exist?"

"It kinda…happened again." She paused. Killian could only guess that she was having doubts as to her aptitude, even though he'd assured her time and again that this was a common occurrence among new guides. Navigating the realms wasn't the easiest skill to master, and sometimes recruits ended up in the wrong place, or no place at all. "I did everything you said and I still can't quite get there. It's like I'm being blocked by something. Like magic, but stronger. I looked it up on the maps you gave me and even tried a few mortal ones, but there doesn't seem to be any record of it."

Killian stood up from the table and crossed to the room's only door, on the side of which was a small panel embedded in the wall. He lifted the sleeve on his right arm and held his wrist out to be scanned. "Send me the coordinates," he told Charlotte. "I'll see what I can find."

He ended the call after her third  _thank you_.

The beam arced across his wrist, drawing out the markings beneath the surface of his skin. An antiquated code comprised of numbers and lines that revealed Killian as a first of his kind. The tags had grown preposterously complex since his induction into what the council still considered an  _elite_  institution, even amidst rumors of corruption.

He keyed in the sequence for the library he needed and the room, which was technically a portal within a portal, transformed in the blink of an eye. Where moments ago the walls were lined with shelves, they now housed a system of mainframes. Silence was replaced with the whirring inner workings of the magical/technological hybrids as they sorted data from every age of every established realm under the council's purview. In the room's center, the old wooden table was replaced with a modern metallic piece that was home to what someone from Emma's world might call a laptop.

Killian took a seat and set to work. The coordinates Charlotte messaged him corresponded with a location in the Land Without Magic, but she was right—for all Killian could tell, there was no name for it. Just a spot on the map in the middle of Nowhere, Maine. He opened Charlotte's recent activity log and double-checked the source of all incoming wishes. Everything was in order. No reason she should've had trouble making contact with a prospective client—

Before Killian's next keystroke was complete, all open files disappeared and a prompt flashed on screen to inform him that the records were classified above his clearance.

Now curious, given that he had one of the highest clearance levels outside of an actual council member, Killian opened a new search, looking for all wishes that'd originated in or around the same location over the past year. The result was a staggering number, all from the same person, inside a town that for all evidence wasn't real. They started slow—once a month, then once a week. In the last few days, the amount had increased to as many as ten wishes per day. He extended the search parameters to include every wish made within a sixty mile radius of this origin point to see if these incidents were as isolated as they appeared.

Just as Killian felt he was making progress toward solving a mystery he didn't fully understand, he was locked out again.

He spent the next hour trying to trick the computer's programming into permitting him access to restricted documents, but it was to no avail. He wasn't going to discern whatever secrets the council sought to hide using a tool they'd designed.

One last attempt, and Killian would call it a night. He'd tell Charlotte to pass the request up the chain of command and move on to more promising endeavors.

He'd been focusing on the wishes themselves, but what if they weren't the most crucial variable?

_Like magic, but stronger._

He checked the archives for any and all traces of magic in the outlying areas, dating as far back as fifty years. He wasn't disappointed. Approximately twenty-seven years ago, an exorbitant amount of energy was released in the place that Charlotte couldn't get to. Nothing before or since except for a minor blip in the woods outside a small town, like those caused when a new portal is formed.

The town's name was familiar, but Killian couldn't recall why.

His next search was for coinciding incidents across all realms, which showed that at the time of this irregularity in the Land Without Magic, an entire kingdom in the Enchanted Forest had been razed to the ground.

"Bloody hell."

Another prompt informed Killian that he'd hit the limit of illegal searches and his privileges had been temporarily revoked. But it didn't matter because he remembered where he'd seen that name before.

—

The storefront was unremarkable as storefronts go, with a door like any other, save no mortal could open it.

In an attempt to cut down on all nonessential magic, the council enacted a new protocol that forbade any guide from free travel between realms. Especially realms that had such trace amounts of magic left as the land he presently called home. They cited a massacre that'd taken place before Killian was born as their reason for the precaution, wherein all wielders of magic were targeted, hunted down via the magical signature specific to each, and made examples of. To counteract any guide leaving a trackable pattern, the council assigned a series of permanent portals for every city under its authority, and designated one portal per guide.

This was Killian's. Luckily for him it was only a few shops over from where he and Emma usually got their morning coffee.

He latched the door behind him and set a course for their building.

Most days, he would've listened to his gut and made himself more aware of his surroundings. Been a bit more wary of the strangers that passed him. This was not most days, and Killian chose to ignore the subtle pinch at the base of his neck.

He was conflicted about what he found out. On the one hand, could fate really be that twisted? And what confirmation did he have? None. He was running purely on conjecture. On the other hand, he knew better than most that  _coincidence_  was, in many cases, a myth.

He swore he'd never lie to Emma again, not even by omission, but he'd need tangible evidence first. They were hardly on the best of terms as it was after last night—

In younger years, he might've mistaken the pulse for a gust of wind, but it cut through his distraction, transformed the pinch at the base of his neck into a chill that ran along his spine and spread through every limb, setting him on edge. Once uncertain, he now knew he'd recognize its signature anywhere. The thrumming vibrations rippled across Killian's consciousness, echoing like the beats of a drum as they reshaped the air, altered its underlying structure.

He was being followed, and his pursuer had cast a glamour spell.

Killian kept his face forward, eyes locked on the horizon. It'd been a good long while since he'd bested someone—the pirate he'd forsaken in centuries past gloried at the possibility. When he came to the intersection, instead of waiting to cross, he turned down the alleyway, tucked himself into a corner, and waited.

It was a solid minute before his prey happened by, and when he did, Killian bounded upon him, driving his body against the building's outer wall with a hand to the man's throat.

"Why are you following me?"

"Is this…" the man choked out what few syllables he could with Killian tightening his grip, "...any way to…greet…an old friend?"

The man dropped his glamour and Killian dropped him to his feet, stepping back like he'd been burned. "Alistair. What…" Killian reined in his amazement, opting instead to be as detached as his mentor had been when last they saw one another. "Why are you here?"

Alistair massaged his neck, turning his head to extreme angles for no apparent reason other than he still had the ability. "I am your direct supervisor, or have you forgotten?"

"Could you blame me?"

"Is that your way of saying you miss me, Jones?"

"Not remotely."

Alistair laughed, a sound that often alternated between wheezing and hacking. That day it was the former. "And here I thought you'd be glad to see me, us being mates and all."

"Is that what we are?"

"Come now, Jones." Alistair dusted off his coat, setting himself to rights after Killian had ruffled him. "I thought we'd agreed to put the past to rest. You know, bygones and all that."

"You threatened to cut out my tongue if I ever spoke to you again."

"Like I said, bygones."

"What do you want?"

_Nothing good_ , Killian knew. In his experience, Alistair had never been the bearer of glad tidings. His presence alone could usually be taken as an omen of unpleasant things to come.

"Maybe you answered a text or two, you'd know," said Alistair. "I received a most distressing call from the council this morning."

"The council called  _you_?"

"They did, indeed. Seems there are quite a number of red flags in your file."

Killian rolled his eyes despite the resurgence of his previous panic. "You of all people know the council's paranoia is without equal."

"Alas," Alistair grinned, "their suspicions are not always without merit. Your case, for example—teeming with unreported incidents. Flirtations, yearning looks, illicit desires—"

"You're mistaken."

"So you  _don't_  want to sleep with your client, then?"

Killian clenched his jaw and hoped the reflex went unnoticed.

"They know about the kiss, Killian. To say they're displeased would be an understatement." He wanted to smile—Killian could see it in his eyes. The sheer delight at this reversal of roles.  _How the mighty have fallen_. "Being that you're their golden boy and all, they're rather reluctant to have you decommissioned. That being said, they won't be embarrassed again."

"In other words, I'm to be preemptively punished on account of your crime."

"Careful, Jones." Alistair snarled, his cavalier attitude suddenly gone. "I'd take care to remember my own culpability if I were you."

There was no winning this argument; Killian had given up trying long ago. He turned from Alistair, followed the alley back to the intersection and waited for the signal to cross.

"Jones."

In the time it took Killian to respond, Alistair was already in his midst, had already taken Killian by the collar and hauled him forward to speak in his ear. "Consider this a warning."

Magic fueled his movements—there could be no question—as he shoved Killian onto the road, amidst the screeching tires and the blaring horn of the driver who reacted too late.

—

Killian was assaulted by a blast of air as the automatic doors parted. The sun was high enough in the sky to let him know he'd spent too many hours under a physician's scrutiny. And a simple sprain was all he had to show for it. He'd been tempted to heal it himself, given that he'd already broken more rules than he could count, but he decided it would be in his best interest not to anger the council beyond all hope of forgiveness.

That didn't mean Alistair would escape their next encounter unscathed.

Killian had seen the twisted pleasure he'd taken in tossing him into oncoming traffic, so much that it had him questioning whether Alistair had truly been sent by the council. Perhaps it was that his mentor had undertaken a mission of revenge—

Killian would've laughed if his entire being weren't so bloody exhausted. He was seeing vengeful plots where none existed. Accusing Alistair of being as easily swayed by darkness as he had been, once upon a time. He'd even let a case of mental fatigue persuade him of the notion that Emma had ties to an event that'd occurred in some nameless nowhere town nearly thirty years ago.

It  _would_  explain why her contract disappeared…

He massaged the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his still-functioning hand. They'd ruled out a possible concussion once he regained consciousness and passed a litany of neurological tests, but he was starting to wonder if he hadn't hit his head harder than he thought.

"Killian?"

He looked over at the sound of her voice. "Swan. What are you—?"

"Someone from the hospital called. They said you were in an accident—I thought…" Her eyes were rimmed with redness and her speech was thick with an emotion she quickly pretended wasn't there, going so far as to add a light laugh for good measure. Killian looked past her to the bright yellow bug parked at an awkward angle in the visitor's lot. "I guess I thought the worst."

He couldn't remember the last time someone had been distraught over the idea of losing him.

"My arm took the brunt of it." He gestured to the sling across his left shoulder. Emma gave him a tight smile but seemed to breathe a bit easier. "I'm sorry, Love. I told them not to call you."

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"I was under the impression you weren't speaking to me."

"Why would you assume that?"

Killian didn't answer. Judging by Emma's body language, he didn't need to. Now that the threat of fatal injury had been removed, the fact that this was the first time they'd seen each other since the previous evening made its mark on her expression.

If Killian cared anything for her, he'd end it here. Now. With the next sentence to leave his lips. He'd follow procedure, have her case reassigned. Sever ties.

"Emma, about last night…"

If he cared anything for her, he'd do the right thing and step aside, allow her to find the good things she was meant for.

All he could ever be to her was a temporary distraction. A waste of what time they had left.

Could he really wish that for someone? If he cared for her?

That was the trouble, wasn't it? He more than cared.

But he'd witnessed firsthand what the council did with traitors. With the things that traitors loved.

"I want to apologize. And to say that it won't happen again."

She was quiet for a long time as, little by little then all at once, every hint of hopeful anticipation drained from her face. When she smiled, Killian wondered if some part of her could sense how dim it was in comparison to others.

"I guess I could take  _some_  of the blame," she said in an attempt to take up their usual banter as though nothing had happened. Nothing had changed. "I did kiss you first."

"You did, didn't you?"

"You don't have to be so smug about it."

Killian laughed, but something about it felt dishonest. He held out his hand. "Friends?"

Emma stared at his palm as though it were the final step toward defeat. And she accepted. "Friends."

—

_"Go on ahead. I'll be along in two shakes."_

_His leftenant nodded with evident understanding before shutting the door to Killian's quarters. When the crew's retreating steps grew faint and disappeared, he pulled his flask from its keeping and set two places at the table, a generous serving given to each. He reached for the glass nearest him, clinked it with its mate and said, "Cheers, Brother," before touching it to his lips. But he didn't drink. A voice in his memory held him back. And not one he would've expected._

"Rum, Sailor? Does anyone know what happens to sailors who drink rum?"

_He set his glass aside with a heavy sigh._

_It'd been long years since that day and Killian still remembered every moment. Every exchange. Every misguided instinct._

"Maybe  _you_  shouldn't have goaded him into it."

_The world outside offered little solace, but that could've had more to do with the fact that he looked out at it through the same window that'd held his final gaze before Liam's collapse. It'd rained that afternoon—nothing too bothersome, but enough to make the landscape look as though it were an unfinished canvas, abandoned by its artist mid-stroke._

_Despite its fullness, the moon was reduced to a sliver by slow-moving clouds. And despite its persistent light, Killian hadn't known a night this dark since the first he'd spent as the last of his line. A shooting star barreled across the sky as though it, too, were intent to break him._

"Make a wish," _Liam used to say._

_To which Killian's unwavering response was,_ "Wishing is for children."

"What do you suppose you are?" _Liam would nudge his arm and Killian would frown._

_It'd seemed pointless, some years, to wish for anything. What could he ask for that he didn't already have? He sailed and served with the finest crew aboard the finest ship in all the lands. He had a brother who'd proved himself a better father than the one they shared. The one who'd left. And one day, he'd be Liam's right hand and together they'd restore honor to the Jones family name._

_What would Liam think if he could but see Killian now? Would he recognize his brother in the pirate, or was the man Liam knew gone forever?_

_Sometimes the memories of him were so vivid, Killian would swear he heard Liam's voice. It was always strongest in that part of the ship._

"Make a wish," _it said now._  "It's not too late."

_But wishing was for children. And cowards. What man would Killian be if he caved to such nonsense? As if a person's sins could be so easily undone, simply by wishing it so._

_He shook his head. He wasn't a boy anymore, and he wouldn't be tricked into behaving like one. Stomping back toward the table, he took up his drink again and downed it in a single swallow. Liam's, too._

_He was at the door, prepared to leave, prepared to drown his sorrows with as many vices as it took to do the job and let the lads call it celebrating. They couldn't know that Killian had given up on that, too. That his smile was a mask, his laugh an empty mimicry of a younger man's enthusiasm. What was the point of celebrating when his best days were behind him?_

_He glanced over his shoulder, knowing the moment had passed. The star had completed its descent. Even if it hadn't…_

_What was the harm, really? No one would know but him. Worst case, nothing happened, he'd show himself for a fool, and head to the tavern with a renewed sense of vindication over his brother's ghost. Best case…_

_"Bloody hell."_

_He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled._

_"That is a new one, I must say," came a voice from inside the cabin._

_Killian spun on his heel, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. Seated at the table and carving a sizeable bite from the bread that'd gone untouched along with the rest of Killian's meal was a man he'd never seen, dressed strangely even for this corner of the kingdom._

_"Most people in your position wish for power, fortune, a chance to try their hand at world domination, what have you."_

_"Who the hell are you and what do you think you're doing on my ship?"_

_"Eating your dinner, looks like." The man stood up, brushed his hands clean on his coat. "In answer to your first question—you can call me Alistair. Now, what sort of_ redemption _are we after? A few alms for the poor when you pass through town? Or are you looking to take holy orders? 'Cause if I'm being honest, somewhere in the middle ground is probably your safest bet."_

_"How did you…?"_

_"Did I forget to mention?" The man called Alistair laughed—a hacking sound Killian often heard from dying men. "I've come to deliver your happy ending. You_ did _say redemption, didn't you? Otherwise, I'm on the wrong boat, and let me tell you it would not be the first time."_

Killian woke with a start, sitting up before he registered where he was. He checked his phone for the time and cursed under his breath. It'd taken him ages to fall asleep—his mind refused to cooperate with his need to put the past twenty-four hours far behind him. Now come to discover he'd slept a grand total of ten minutes.

He moved to the edge of the bed and took a drink of water from the glass he kept on the nightstand. It was a habit he'd picked up from Emma, or perhaps just from falling asleep too often around her. Whenever he did, he'd wake up to find a full glass on the nearest hard surface.

They hadn't spoken during the drive home. Not one word. It hadn't been uncomfortable, not completely. It was more...tense from a mutual effort to return to normal. To somehow find their way back to  _before_.

The conversations they'd started between the sidewalk and the car—

_"So I'm your emergency contact, huh?"_

_"Does that surprise you?"_

_"You need to get out more."_

_"The last time I went out I got hit by a car."_

_—_ were quickly dropped. Their hearts weren't in it. Killian could only attest to his own, of course.

They said goodbye in the hallway—

_"See you tomorrow, Swan."_

_"Bright and early, I know. Coffee's on you."_

_"As you wish."_

—before entering their respective apartments.

Killian had showered and dressed as best he could while favoring his sore limb and settled in to sleep—a dreamless sleep, if this world knew any mercy. Turned out it was crueler than he'd given it credit for.

His tired gaze moved from the water glass to the nightstand itself as a voice from his unconscious met him in the waking world. He'd promised, by actions if not words, that he'd give up the search. She wasn't ready to know. But the same question that haunted him the night he'd set his life on its present course haunted him now.

_What's the harm in finding out?_

Since he was up anyway, might as well put his suspicions to rest.

He waved his hand in front of the nightstand's top drawer to unseal it. From inside he retrieved the one file he hadn't disposed of and leafed through its pages until he found the one he was after. An article that listed the name of a town that'd experienced a minor blip of magic twenty-seven years ago. Like those caused when a new portal is formed.


	11. (10 Pt 2)

It started slow, progressed in stages. It spoke softly, so close to silence. Sweet, calming, comfortable. Unlike reality, whose tones were harsh, cutting, unkind, denial had a special fondness for Emma. And she for it.

It was denial that'd begged her to reconsider running away, maintained that Ingrid hadn't lied about wanting to adopt her. That she hadn't really meant to endanger their lives that night.  _It was a joke._  A twisted one, but still. She would've pulled them out of the way in time.

Denial had spent months insisting it wasn't Neal who'd made the call, despite the cop's specific mention of the country he'd picked for his escape.  _Coincidence_ , it'd whispered in the dark as Emma lay her head to a pillow that wasn't hers, in a place she didn't belong. He wouldn't do that to her. He loved her.

It swore he would come back, and it waited with her for the day that never came, encouraging patience all the while.  _He's on his way._  He'd have an explanation for everything—soon it would all make sense.

Denial kept her company the first few days she was late. And the first few days after that.  _It's not possible. You were careful._

But the problem with denial was that it always ran out.

_The keys hit the bottom of the envelope with a quiet thud. "Good news. You get a car when you get out."_ _The woman—Loretta—went to leave but turned back at the door, her gaze landing briefly on the stick in Emma's hand. "And a baby."_

She told herself that Killian's warnings weren't as grave as he'd have her believe. That the punishment for something so small, so innocent, couldn't possibly be as severe as  _beheading_. But denial was no match for the look in his eyes as he pulled away, panic showing in every part of him—his too-straight shoulders and furrowed brow, the way his hand swept through his hair, only worsening the damage Emma had done.

"It was just a kiss." She'd meant this as a statement, but her tone betrayed her, the assertion sounding untenable to her own ears.  _It doesn't change anything._

"Where I come from, there's no such thing. You have no idea the penalty—"

"It was just a kiss," she reaffirmed, finding that her mouth moved more easily around the words with each repetition. She kept them as a mantra in her mind— _just a kiss, just a kiss, just a kiss—_ even as doubt threatened cracks in her resolve. "If you're afraid I'm going to mistake a moment of weakness for Happily Ever After, then you can relax. It's out of our systems, so no one has to suffer anyone else's wrath, or…whatever."

Not that they would, Emma was sure. At worst, Killian would get a slap on the wrist. A single blemish on an otherwise spotless service record. And Emma—while she wasn't enjoying being on the universe's shit list, she couldn't see things getting much worse if she and Killian  _happened_  to enter into a mutually beneficial phase of their relationship. What would be the harm? Honestly? He wasn't her happy ending. He was her friend. His invisible puppet masters couldn't be nearly as troubled by his extra-magical affairs as he made them out to be.

"I wish it were that simple."

"Careful." Emma smiled. She'd never seen him this nervous. It was kind of adorable. Tousled hair and flushed cheeks, lips parted to help catch his breath—her kiss looked good on him. "I hear wishing can be tricky business."

The fear faded from Killian's eyes as he returned her smile. Not completely, but enough that Emma wasn't plagued by guilt when leaning toward him, her gaze trained on a feature she wouldn't mind getting better acquainted with.

So maybe not entirely out of her system...

She'd be lying if she said that night in the rain was the last time she'd thought about it. But in all her imagining, she couldn't have known the first kiss would taste like chocolate. A hint of cinnamon still on his tongue.

How might the night have ended if things were different? If the lure of the forbidden was lifted? If Killian wasn't her guide, but some guy she'd met at a bar? If she'd gone home with him knowing they'd never see each other again?

She couldn't speak for Killian, but it'd been so long since she'd come close to sex with another person that it was rapidly becoming an abstract concept. With tensions running high these past weeks, they could both do with a release.

That's all this would be.  _Just sex. Just the once._

"I'm pretty good at keeping secrets."

He wouldn't be conflicted if he didn't want it, too. He wouldn't look at her like  _that_. He wouldn't lean forward, wouldn't draw a shaky breath before giving in, before—

He stopped.

All he said was, "Swan…," as he touched his forehead to hers, but the tone of it hit her like a ton of bricks, sobering her to the mistake she'd almost made, almost repeated. It was like an echo ten years in the making.

_"I gotta go to Canada,_ alone _."_

Her body reacted before her mind fully caught up; she followed her feet as though by autopilot, but they weren't fast enough. Would he notice if she ran? Would he care? "I should go."

Her mistake came in turning back, in watching Killian stare after the empty space on his couch, his once rigid shoulders gone slack with a heavy exhale. "You don't have to."

Emma could've laughed but she knew how hysterical it would've sounded. What was the alternative to leaving? Sitting together in excruciating silence while they pretended it was just a typical Tuesday?

She shouldn't have gone over in the first place. Shouldn't have persuaded herself toward forgiveness. If she'd just stayed home and stewed in her own bitterness, none of this would've happened. They would have found their way back to their own version of normal, eventually. But now?

"I have an early day tomorrow."

Resigned, Killian met her at the door and held it open for her. Emma stared out at the hallway, knowing that once she crossed it, everything would be different. Final. She didn't want to leave without telling him how sorry she was.

She'd set something in motion she couldn't control.

If ever the world's obsession with time travel made sense, it was that moment. He'd meant it when he said he didn't pity her, but believing something doesn't make it real. His eyes revealed a truth he wasn't even aware of, and it made Emma cringe. If she could've undone everything, she would have—in a heartbeat, she would have.

She wanted to tell him it would never happen again. It was a one-time thing. But she didn't trust her voice beyond, "Goodnight."

The distance from his door to hers had never felt so vast. A few short feet could've been miles for the time it took her to cover. She locked herself inside, driving the deadbolt home with more force than she'd intended, and went to her room. She locked that door, too, a fresh ache forming in her chest with every barrier she put between them.

—

The streetlamp burned low and flickered before finally dying. Emma had spent the last twenty minutes waiting for it to give up the fight, watching through the wall-length windows of the twenty-four hour facility. The spin of the dryer cycle was too hypnotic, too apt at lulling her into a dreamlike state, and dreams were the reason she wasn't home right now, fast asleep.

Foot traffic had died down hours ago and cars were practically a myth in that part of town. To say that she was alone would've been an understatement. Seated on a plastic chair with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her, and nothing but the steady whirring of an outdated machine to break the quiet, it was easy to imagine herself the only soul around for miles.

This wasn't the case, of course. A security guard was posted by the main entrance and circled the building every half hour. There was an apartment complex at the end of the street and an all-night diner a few blocks over. But for all the noise the world made at that hour, it might as well have been empty.

She couldn't remember who'd recommended the place to her—conveniently tucked away until it epitomized the phrase, "hole-in-the-wall,"—because she didn't usually do laundry this late. But she was grateful for the knowledge, however she'd come by it.

After returning to her own apartment, she'd been unable to settle and her subconscious had done her no favors, picking away at the tiniest details until her dreams felt like the stop-and-start of a broken record. Work would've been a welcome distraction, but for the first time in months she didn't have any open cases.

_Figures._

And once she was done checking emails, checking her phone, finishing the TV dinner she didn't really have an appetite for but couldn't justify throwing away uneaten, and checking her phone again, the walls started to close in on her.

What she'd said about having an early day wasn't entirely true…in that it was a complete lie. She would've said anything to escape the awkwardness her actions had spawned. As things stood, she planned to spend the day holed up in her apartment, assigning herself chores, and avoiding the outside world like the plague. Her place could probably do with a good scrub-down anyway, since her former roommate had taken his anal-retentive ways across the hall.

She closed her eyes, sank low in her chair.  _It's better this way._

Separation could only be constructive at this point. For both of them.

But she'd said that before. Had avoided him before.

There was one option she hadn't considered. Not in any seriousness. But it stayed in the back of her mind, like a failsafe. If things got too weird, she could always  _wish_. Would it make her selfish if she just wanted to be done? Her life was so much simpler when Killian wasn't a part of it. Certainly less dramatic.

Sort of gray, looking back. Like an old photograph.

Whenever she thought about it, really and truly contemplated putting an end to the madness that'd become her daily life…

Emma sighed, staring up at the ceiling tiles.

…she wasn't ready to forget.

The dryer sounded a signal, and not a moment too soon. Emma crossed the now eerily silent space and hurried to retrieve her clothes. She folded each item in turn and dropped them into the laundry basket at her feet, moving nimbly with the ease of routine. Until she came to one that didn't belong to her.

She froze, unblinking as her eyes roved the muted floral print of the dry-clean only material that'd shrunk two sizes in the wash.

_It was tedious work, but the sort of tedious that Emma didn't mind. Growing up, her outfits were limited to what fit in her backpack. As an independent, self-sufficient adult who'd clawed her way from the depths of poverty toward a stable income, she viewed her wardrobe as a point of pride. It gave her a unique thrill to watch her drawers fill up on laundry day._

_But her mood quickly soured when she reached into the pile and found a pair of men's jeans._

_It was small—hardly a capital offense—but the first step always was. This was how it started. He already lived in her apartment, had already appointed himself Master of Cleanliness and Schedule-Keeping. Next thing she knew, he'd be trying to bond with her. Trying to get her to open up about her tragic past under the guise of being her friend. If she'd wanted a roommate, she would've found one herself—preferably someone who only surfaced when the rent was due. It would not have been some wish-peddling whack-job who, despite all evidence, she didn't think was certifiable. Smug, on the other hand, was a term Emma had little doubt was invented solely for him._

_She stomped out to the living room, where he was seated on the couch, looking pensive as he tapped out a message on his phone. She'd later claim to have aimed for his lap instead of his face, but she couldn't be sure that was true. The dark denim rolled onto his chest, revealing a startled expression._

_"Good morning to you, too, Swan."_

_She'd intended to tell him not to get comfortable with his current living situation—this thing_ _would last a month, tops. If she could stomach him that long—but that wasn't what she said._

_"In the future I'd appreciate it if you kept better track of your things."_

_"Apologies. Won't happen again."_

But it did. Of course it did. Somehow their clothes gravitated toward one another's closets over the course of the two weeks they'd shared an address and had yet to be properly sorted.

The door at the building's front entrance whined against its hinges as another patron entered, breaking Emma of her trance. She tossed Killian's shrunken shirt and the remaining dryer contents into the basket and made a start for the back exit when a man's voice stopped her.

"I think you forgot something."

She turned to see him pick another one of Killian's shirts off the floor and hold it out to her. "Thanks, I must've…" she paused with her hand around the garment, the memory of who'd introduced her to that laundromat suddenly fresh in her mind, "…dropped it."

"Emma," he said at the end of a breathy laugh, "what a coincidence, seeing you here—I was just thinking about you."

Apparently  _coincidence_  and  _misfortune_  were interchangeable to some people.

—

The storefront was unremarkable as storefronts go, lending the street its only source of light for an entire block. In contrast to the quiet inside, strange sounds stirred from every direction, some familiar, human, and others that sent a chill down Emma's spine as she thought of every horror movie she'd ever seen. It was all coming back to her now, why she'd once told Brennan that the next time she stepped foot in that neighborhood would be over her dead body.

"My dad told me you came to see him a while back."

He stood a comfortable distance away as Emma leaned against her bug, and gone was the superior stance she'd grown accustomed to. The unwavering stare and million dollar smile that graced the print ads for his father's practice. He seemed to question the wisdom of leaning in for closer conversation, ultimately deciding against it.

"Did he also tell you he tried to set us up?"

Brennan chuckled—Emma rarely used that word because it was the sort of descriptor she associated with TV personalities as part of their practiced personas—but it fit the sound that bubbled up out of him. Almost a nervous noise from one who was usually so poised.

"Again?" He ran his hand through his honey-blonde hair, in the same fashion as—

Emma adjusted her footing, trading the curb for the street, thankful that the gutter wasn't backed up with the storm season they'd been having. It was a small mercy, and she'd take it.

"Once that man latches onto an idea, there's no talking him out of it," said Brennan. "Not that I've tried all that hard to talk him out of it."

Emma returned his modest smile, an action that complemented his features, strangely enough. She didn't know he was capable of anything less than condescending.

That wasn't fair. There was one night when she'd seen a kinder side to him, a side that was willing to forego the inherent casual nature of their encounters. Maybe that'd been the real Brennan peeking through the façade, or maybe it'd all been part of his long game. It didn't really matter anymore.

"Well, it was nice seeing you."

"Leaving so soon?"

"I don't usually make a habit of hanging around laundromats, so yeah."

Brennan smiled as an air of cool confidence washed away his shyness. "I was thinking we could catch up. Maybe grab a bite somewhere—there's bound to be a few places still open."

Emma was in the right mood to say  _yes_. The timing couldn't have been better if she'd planned it. And wasn't this exactly what she needed to take her mind off of…other things? She was a different person than she'd been the previous summer—wouldn't it stand to reason that the same applied to Brennan?

He was sweetly eager where before he might've been brash, overconfident, the worst sort of self-assured. But something held her back. It wasn't the fear she expected—it wasn't as strong as that. It was...well, if she had to put a name to it, indifference. There was a reason they'd never moved from a physical relationship into something deeper. He wasn't someone she could see herself being with long-term. Of course, that could be said of most men she dated. It'd been years since anyone made her want to risk her heart again.

"Maybe some other time."

Emma walked around the front of her car, unlocked the driver's side door, but before she climbed inside, Brennan said, "You've got my number. If you change your mind."

—

Emma was assaulted by a blast of air as emergency vehicles rushed by. No sooner had she reached the intersection, ready to cross, than she'd heard the sirens. She watched the flashing lights race down the street as the congestion that'd kept her from parking in her usual spot hurried to make a path, and she hoped that no one was too badly injured.

She'd had to settle for a space at the corner market until the bottleneck cleared, which, knowing her luck, wouldn't be anytime soon. Though the sign cautioned that the lot was for customers only and all violators would be towed, for as long as Emma had employed this back-up, she'd only been impounded once.

Even with permission from the stick-figure pedestrian, Emma was the target of angry horns as she trudged along the crosswalk, but she was past the point of caring about how her chosen route home affected a few disgruntled commuters. If anyone was to blame for them being stuck, it was the idiot who'd caused an accident.

The inky denseness of the night sky faded to soft blue along the horizon, serving as a reminder of how many hours she'd gone without sleep. The sun would be up soon, and her body ached with the need for rest.

When she turned her key in the lock, she half expected Killian to pop into the hall, armed with an apology and a plea to remain friends—he'd tried calling but there'd been no answer. She'd tell him she forgot her phone and he'd fight a smirk, not sure if this was true or if she sought to save face.  _"Of course,"_  he'd nod, stepping back to rein in his enthusiasm. And Emma would smile.

She blinked away the fantasy to find herself alone in an empty hallway. The reality wouldn't be that simple, no matter how badly she just wanted to go back to  _before_. Or how much she wanted to believe the voice running its soft caress across her thoughts, whispering,  _it was just a kiss. It doesn't change anything._

After ransacking her room until it looked like the victim of a robbery, she found her phone wedged between the nightstand and the bedframe. It told her nothing new. No messages. No missed calls. She carried it with her to the living room, set it on the end table, and passed into blessed oblivion the instant her head hit the throw pillow.

She'd only meant to sleep for thirty minutes or so—quick power nap so she didn't completely obliterate her sleep schedule—but she woke in the early afternoon, more exhausted than when she'd laid down.

She rubbed her eyes, feeling like they were being permanently sealed with every turn of her wrists. It was a tempting thought to just stay there, let time pass her by until a new day. But she knew if she did she'd be up all night, when loneliness was at its peak.

How did the song go?  _Like a heartbeat drives you mad…_

She forced herself upright, opening her eyes against the blinding sunlight breaking through the blinds. She squinted into nothingness for what felt like forever but was probably closer to five minutes before making herself stand up. By the time she washed her face and brushed her teeth and changed out of last night's clothes, she was finally able to shake off some of her drowsiness.

Her stomach did a nervous flip when her phone rang, and she had to keep her feet from moving too fast toward the end table where it rested, undisturbed. For all appearances, harmless. Later, when the dust settled, she'd catch herself regarding it with wonder as she turned it over in her hands. How could something so small deliver such a devastating blow?

—

The trip from her apartment to the hospital passed in a blur—one minute she was standing in her living room, listening to a stranger say things like  _accident_  and  _Killian Jones_  and  _possible head trauma_  in the same sentence as calmly and casually as most people breathed, and the next, she was rushing toward the bright red sign that read  _Emergency_.

There was a strong chance she didn't lock her door, and that she'd broken a dozen separate traffic laws getting there—these things didn't matter in light of the fact that Killian could be—

That he might—

Being magical didn't make him immortal, did it? He was flesh and blood like the rest of them.

At first she thought he was a hallucination, a side effect of blind panic, just standing outside the automatic doors like a lost puppy.

"Killian?"

He turned toward the sound of her voice. "Swan. What are you—?"

Relief didn't come gently; it was abrasive and abrupt and it took her breath away. It drowned out the voice that'd softly whispered, so close to silence, the one that'd taken her hand and led her away from reality's crushing cadence. It left her illusions in tatters, abandoning her at a precipice she could no longer avoid.

Because Killian was right. When he said that one day she'd want to run toward a future instead of away from the past—he was right.

He couldn't know that that day had already come.

Because she'd known she was in trouble the first time she saw him. The first time he showed insight into who she was and she hadn't bolted for the door. She told herself it was the things he promised: happiness and a chance to find her son, her parents, to have a family, even though she hadn't wished these things aloud. She'd taken comfort in someone knowing, and in that someone being him. Because she felt a connection to that man on the beach who mourned his brother, mourned the turn his life had taken in the wake of untimely death. Because with every part of himself that he shared with her, a small part of her was mended. Because her heart felt a little less broken whenever he was near.

Because Emma was wrong. It was a kiss. And it changed everything.

"Someone from the hospital called. They said you were in an accident—I thought…"

_I thought I'd never see you again._

Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them back, suppressing a sudden surge of emotion with a laugh that didn't quite sound like hers. It was lighter— _she_  felt lighter, in the wake of revelation, and at the same time weighed down by a confession she didn't think she was brave enough to make. After all, he'd been the one to pull back, the one to say it shouldn't have happened. What if it was more than the restrictions that came with his job? What if it was her?

"I guess I thought the worst."

"My arm took the brunt of it." Killian gestured to the sling across his left shoulder, but the abrasions on his face told a different story. "I'm sorry, Love. I told them not to call you."

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"I was under the impression you weren't speaking to me."

"Why would you assume that?"

Killian looked away, over Emma's shoulder to where she'd parked,  _if_  she'd parked—she couldn't be sure she hadn't jumped out while the car was still in motion.

If the sheer terror she'd felt at the thought of losing him didn't trigger her flight reflex, surely nothing could.

"Emma, about last night…"

Except maybe one thing.

She didn't know what she expected him to say— _Screw the rules. Consequences be damned. I want this, us—_ but he looked at her with vacant eyes, his mouth set in a remorseful line. "I want to apologize. And to say that it won't happen again."

As much as she would later deny it to herself, as quickly and as easily as she would fall into the familiar pattern of pretending everything was fine, in that moment, Killian's words carved a fresh scar, reopened old wounds, gave her deepest insecurities something they never tired of. Vindication.

The simple fact that she wanted something should've been a clear indicator that she wasn't meant to have it. At least Killian had been honest from the beginning.  _One rule. Penalty of death._  He wouldn't lead her on. Wouldn't take advantage of her affections for his own gain. He wouldn't betray her trust. Emma didn't have to worry that she'd wake up one day and he'd be gone. That she'd give too much of herself and it still wouldn't be enough. She didn't have to live in fear of him turning out to be someone so completely different from the person she thought she knew.

At least there was some solace in that.

And this dejected feeling wouldn't last forever. After her next birthday, she'd have no memory of any of this—sooner, if she decided on a happy ending before then. Maybe that was what she needed. A clean break. A quick one.

When she smiled, she wondered if some part of Killian could sense how superficial it was. She couldn't quite muster the sarcasm that'd always come second-nature, like it was her true voice and not a wall that no one was interested in breaking down. The words tumbled more than rolled off her tongue, and there was nothing graceful in their landing. "I guess I could take  _some_  of the blame. I did kiss you first."

"You did, didn't you?"

"You don't have to be so smug about it."

Even Killian's laugh was a pale imitation of itself, a hollow sound meant to soften the blow. He held out his hand to her, with a compromise she would've leapt at early that morning, when all she thought she wanted was to make amends. "Friends?"

Emma looked at his upturned palm. It was innocuous—hardly the most obvious sign—but the final step always was. This was how it ended. He already lived apart from her, had already declared himself a strict professional and follower of rules, only here for the purpose of aiding her search. Next thing she knew, he'd be just another ghost.

She'd have to content herself with the few memories she had for as long as they were hers to keep.

"Friends."

—

_"Go on ahead, I'll catch up." He captured her lips in a lingering kiss, only letting up when Emma pushed him away, laughing as she said, "I'm serious. I have to take this."_

_Brennan was unfazed when she turned the screen toward him as proof that it wasn't just an excuse. "What I have in mind will be a lot more fun for both of us."_

_"I'll believe that when I see it."_

_His hand slipped lower on her waist and loosened its grip altogether as he leveled an unamused smirk at her. "You're never gonna let that go, are you? It was one time."_

_Emma laughed, gave him a quick kiss, and shoved him back toward her room. "Go."_

_Though reluctant, Brennan complied, tugging his shirt over his head as he went. Emma may have waited a few extra seconds to answer her phone while she admired the view. Then she cleared her mind of all distraction and accepted the call._

_She'd never been one of those people who believed in the power of positive thinking. Optimism was one train she rarely boarded. So when she'd gotten out of bed that morning, it hadn't been with any misconceptions about how the day would progress. It was shit every year and that wasn't about to change._

_By the time she hung up, her reasons for inviting Brennan over were the same reasons she now wished she hadn't. Now she really just wanted to be alone. She didn't know what would bring her back from the turn her mood had taken. But it wasn't the half-naked man in her bed._

_It was only a matter of time before he got impatient, and when he did, he came armed with a question Emma had never mastered the art of answering without making the other person uncomfortable. "Are you okay?"_

_"Not really."_

_"Wanna talk about it?"_

_She was about to brush him off, promise to make it up to him, when he took her hand. Maybe it was the gentle stroke of his thumb across her skin, a silent reassurance, or the sincerity in his eyes. Maybe it was the want of human connection she wasn't strong enough to refuse, but Emma heard herself say, "My last lead on an important case just went cold. Struck a nerve, I guess."_

_She remembered the exact day she'd started looking for her parents. It was the same day she'd lost all faith in the foster system. The day she'd given up on the idea that she'd ever be adopted. The only person who'd been willing had turned out to be a special brand of crazy. When Emma was still young, still naïve, she'd convinced herself that the people shuffling her between homes actually cared about her well-being. She'd lived two weeks with what would be her last family the day it finally sank in that they didn't. No one did._

_The anniversary was a simple enough date to forget, but Emma never did. Every year she woke up certain of one thing: she was an orphan. And that's all she ever would be._

_"You know," said Brennan, "we don't have to do this. We could take a walk, grab a cone—that's assuming you like ice cream, 'cause I gotta say, it would be a definite deal breaker if you didn't."_

_Despite herself, Emma felt the first traces of a smile itching to replace her scowl. "I wouldn't say no to some cherry vanilla."_

_"My kind of woman." He tugged on their joined hands and hauled her toward the door._

_"Are you going like that?"_

_"I don't spend all that time at the gym for people_ not _to see my abs."_

Emma entered her apartment to discover that she hadn't, in fact, locked her door. Hadn't latched it. The only thing missing was a flashing neon sign to let the world's thieves know that her place was open for business.

She and Killian hadn't spoken during the drive home. Not one word. She wouldn't categorize it as the  _most_  unpleasant ride of her life, but it came close. What was there to say?  _Don't feel bad for not wanting me? You're not the only one?_

She'd suggested they meet for coffee the next day as a means of getting back on track, but she was already working through various ways to cancel as she dropped her keys on the counter, pulled the phone from her back pocket, and scrolled through her contacts until she found the one she wanted. She stared at it for a few minutes, debating the pros and cons of letting heartbreak influence her actions.

It was a temporary solution. It was selfish. She didn't want to be that person anymore.

But she was feeling exceptionally vulnerable. Emotionally drained. And she didn't want to be alone.

He answered on the third ring. "Does this mean you've changed your mind?"


	12. (11)

_**Day Seven** _

Emma was not peeved. She was not irritated or  _vexed_  or miffed or any variation thereof. Inconvenienced, maybe. But she was an adult. She could handle it.

It'd been a week, to the day, since she'd cancelled plans with Killian. Since she'd told him she was going to be busy for the foreseeable future and it was probably best if he didn't call for a while. How long  _a while_  was, Emma couldn't say. All she knew was she needed space, and Boston had never felt so small.

Killian's infuriatingly understanding reply had been,  _"Of course. Whatever you need."_  But it hadn't been a peaceful separation. Any time Emma saw him in the hallway or on the street or in the coffeehouse that had been her haunt long before she'd met him—seriously, couldn't he get his caffeine fix from one of the hundreds of other sellers in the state? And spare her the torture that was bumping into him every. single. day?—her annoyance level rose. She was past even the smallest pleasantries at this point. Things like  _hi, good morning, how are you?_  were well beyond her neighborly consideration.

And now that circumstances necessitated a face-to-face, she struggled with her sense of civility.

She'd gotten sick of the sight of it, just camped out on her counter like it belonged, lighting up every ten seconds with texts from some person named Charlotte.

She'd spent longer than she'd admit under duress analyzing the role this  _Charlotte_  occupied in Killian's life. Nothing too invasive, but every so often, she'd skim the first line of a text—most of which were prefaced with,  _"Mr. Jones."_

_I need you. I'm sorry to bother you. Are you there?_

Emma doubted someone so nervous could be Killian's girlfriend. Not that she knew much about his dating preferences. She'd imagined for a moment that she might've been his type— _"I dreamed of the most beautiful woman…"_ —but that'd clearly been his fever talking.

She'd spent the last two days going back and forth about whether or not it was  _"Bad form"_  to pretend she'd never found it. Pretend she hadn't stashed it in the drawer where she kept her matches and her ketchup packets and the coupons she swore she'd use—she meant it this time.  _Before the expiration._  That it wasn't hidden under the takeout menu of a restaurant that'd closed down six months ago, and covered in loose pepper flakes from her favorite pizza place.

He took longer than usual to answer, and Emma wondered if this was by design. If he could tell it was her by her knock. Or was it a lack of other options that'd given her away? To the best of her recollection, she'd never seen another person visit his apartment. Not that she paid it any special attention.

He gave her an insincere smile and extended no greeting— _hi, good morning, how are you?_  He didn't say her name. Didn't say anything. He opened his door and waited.

"You left this at my place." Emma held the bane of these seven days out to him, ready to be rid of the reminder.

"Thanks." Killian clutched it in hand as though it possessed all the value of a paperweight. "I actually requisitioned a new one. Thought this one was lost."

Did he really want to avoid her that badly? Had he waited a full hour to order a new phone rather than speak to her, or had it been the same sort of split-second decision as one that made a man turn his teenaged girlfriend over to the authorities for a crime he'd committed?

Considering she would've preferred eating a live cockroach to making the trip across the hall, Emma wasn't one to talk.

"I'm glad you came by, Swan."

_Could've fooled me._

"If you've got a minute, there's something I want to discuss with you."

He directed her to the living room—or as she'd come to know it, the scene of the crime—acting as though the couch that'd held them, and the paintings that'd looked on, the room itself and all its accoutrements weren't tainted by the stench of rejection. He sat in the same spot as before but Emma opted for the recliner over a seat next to him.

She could've been projecting her own feelings onto him, but Killian's body language was off. Awkward. She'd known him to fidget on occasion, but this was something else. He was unable to pick which position to hold—back straight or slouched, hands folded or flat, steady eye contact or wandering gaze. Whatever he was about to tell her wouldn't come easy.

Emma wanted to make a joke about this not being a job interview, but immediately shut down the impulse.

Once Killian started talking, the information flowed freely, but on a subject that had Emma confused, her main question being,  _"What does this have to do with me?"_

Extensive detail was paid to the technical aspects surrounding the cataloguing and classification of wishes according to priority, as well as which were entrusted to new recruits, which to guides more advanced, and which were scrapped for being of the  _"This beer would go great with some nachos"_  variety. Why Killian was reciting the inner complexities of his job, which had all the narrative appeal of a dry sponge, Emma couldn't guess. Unless this really was an interview and he wanted her to be clear as to his qualifications.

Then he said, "I promised myself I'd never lie to you again," and Emma's interest piqued. At the same time, a sickening feeling twisted her stomach.

The next part was hazy as Killian rambled on about dark magic and portals and some kingdom in another world called  _The Enchanted Forest._

Emma made a conscious effort not to roll her eyes, but the temptation was strong. "Where are you going with this?"

"You won't like what I have to say, but I ask that you hear me out."

Emma would agree to no such thing. She nodded simply so he'd get it over with.

Killian scratched behind his ear, which Emma took as a sign that she was right to be wary. "I believe the reason you never found your parents is because they were taken captive by a curse that ravaged their land." He looked her in the eye to emphasize,  _"Your_  land."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Is that it?"

"Well, yes, but—"

Emma got to her feet. "Then I take it we're done here."

Killian followed suit. "Don't you have quest—"

"Nope. I'm good. I'll see myself out."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Pretty much."

Killian stared at her, his mouth agape.

"Did you expect a 'thank you'?" Emma scoffed. "Thanks for wasting my time—there's half an hour I'll never get back."

"Emma—"

"Look, I get that you mean well, and that  _you_  believe what you're saying is true. But do you have any idea what you sound like right now?"

"Aye." His face fell. "But it's the truth. At least, it might be—all evidence points to this town—"

"That you can't even find."

"—being the location of an unprecedented event that occurred within hours of your birth—how can that be a coincidence?"

"Easy. Coincidences happen every day."

"Not nearly as many as you might think."

He was perfectly serious, earnest even, as much on edge by what he was saying as Emma. But it was ridiculous. The last three months of her life had been comprised of pure nonsense, and she was sick of it.

"I don't have time for this."

Killian mumbled, "I'll alert the media."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're still running, Emma. For the first time in your life, someone's provided substantiated proof of your family's whereabouts but to you they're nothing but the ramblings of a madman."

"Substantiated by who, Killian? Your almighty superiors? For all I know there could be monkeys in lab coats pulling your strings and you want me to just accept that they know the truth about my family. You perform a few parlor tricks and then ask me to believe in portals and dark curses and imaginary towns—do you know how crazy that is?" Emma took a deep breath to calm her temper, but all that did was give way to the emotions fueling it. "I understand you have good intentions, I do. And I know that you want to help. But what I need right now is for you to stop. I know you want to believe that my parents had no choice but to give me up, that they wanted to give me my best chance,  _believe me,_  that's all I wanted for so long." Killian's frustration subsided at the wobble in her voice and the tears building behind her lashes, compassion rushing to take its place. "But I have to grow up, and this is making it too hard. If you really want to help me, please let it go. I'm not from some magical kingdom, my parents didn't leave me because of some curse. I'm a normal person with normal baggage and I'm tired, Killian—can you appreciate that?"

"Emma, I'm—"

"I know." Emma dried her cheeks with her hands. "I just think the best thing is for us to take some time apart."

Killian let her words sink in, then he nodded with the same infuriatingly understanding reply. "Whatever you need."

—

_**Day Eleven** _

It wasn't terribly windy, but every so often there'd be a piercing gust that pulled tears from Emma's eyes, and she feared that every minute she remained was a minute closer to never feeling her face again. Still, she stayed and watched a little longer, letting the breeze tangle her hair and letting the view litter her thoughts with longing.

It was something she'd done since she was a kid, since she started to understand the gravity of what'd happened in the first hours of her life. It was a game she played with herself when the others weren't interested in sharing the sandbox. She'd sway back and forth on a swing that'd been surrendered at her approach—like the thing had bitten her new foster brother on the ass—and she'd stare out at the strange faces crowding the playground.

She'd seen enough movies to recognize a prime setting for a fated family reunion. It always happened in ordinary places. When faced with someone they'd never met before, the heroine's life was irrevocably changed. Somehow, suddenly, they  _knew_.  _This_  was the one that'd gotten away.

Emma imagined that the pull they felt, the  _knowing_ , was similar to what people described as, "Love at first sight." This undeniable, inexplicable thing. And she watched for it in her own life. Watched people. The woman buying her favorite pop-tarts, or the man holding a door open for the person behind him, bidding them a, "Good afternoon."

The little blonde boy towing his sister across the ice, insisting, "It's fun. Come on," and promising, "I won't let you fall."

Swap a swing set for a park bench and a jungle gym for an ice rink and that day could've been any of a hundred others. Except that day, Emma's focus was on the couples skating hand-in-hand, stopping periodically to whisper sweet nothings that culminated in a kiss.

Ice skating was a skill she'd never acquired, though she'd wanted to. It was one on a long list of somedays— _someday when I'm older, when I have the time, once I've settled into my white picket fence life with nothing better to do on an idyllic winter day than while away the hours with that special someone._

She tightened her grip on the cup in her hands that she might absorb some of its warmth. The name  _Anna_  was written on its side in black ink, which would've irritated her if she thought it'd been done on purpose. But her barista had been a little…flustered.

_"No boyfriend today?" Said the girl behind the counter when taking her order._

_Emma paused in pulling a crumpled bill from her pocket. "Excuse me?"_

_"The guy who always comes in with you—haven't seen him for a few days." When Emma didn't say anything, the girl's face went flush. "I'm so sorry. It's none of my…" She punched some buttons on the register. "You guys just seemed so happy together." A horrified expression crossed her face when she met Emma's eye. "I'm making it worse, aren't I? You broke up and I'm rubbing salt in the wound—my parents are always telling me to find my filter. 'Stop being so nosey, Stephanie Lynn. If people wanted you to know their business they'd tell you.' Easier said than done, huh?"_

_If she was after sympathy, she was looking in the wrong place. Emma gave her a tight smile and handed her a ten._

_Stephanie Lynn sheepishly accepted. "You probably want this to go."_

It wasn't that Emma didn't believe in curses. For as long as she could remember, she'd felt like there was some dark force or other nipping at her heels—that morning's interaction one of many instances that tried its damnedest to validate her suspicions. But the way Killian had talked about it, like a curse was a tangible thing, a real life villain in its own right, had her wondering how she could've developed feelings for someone who subscribed to such nonsense.

She supposed stranger things had happened.

Sometimes he spoke so passionately, he almost had her believing in once eye-roll worthy notions. Sometimes in the quiet of the night, instead of being aggravated by the idea of worlds so replete with magic that they all but overflowed, she was intrigued. What would a place like that look like? Somewhere happy endings were so common that people practically tripped over them?

But the fantastical would vanish come sunrise, like the monsters that lurked in youthful shadows. All tricks looked like magic at first glance, but even the cleverest among them was just smoke and mirrors.

"There you are." Emma adopted a carefree smile as Brennan sat beside her, put his arm around her shoulder, and ran his hand up and down the length of her sleeve to generate heat. "Ready to go?"

"Just waiting on you."

—

_**Day Eighteen** _

Emma had lived on her own almost as many years as she hadn't, and in that time she'd prided herself on keeping her more slovenly tendencies under wraps. When she was young, it was a luxury she couldn't afford—people were hard-pressed to take in orphans as it was. But a messy one? One who dropped things? Or misplaced them? Or tripped over her own shoelaces?

Looking around at the mess she'd made, she supposed that there were certain perks to being alone. There was no one to belittle her quirks, criticize her imperfections.

No one to ridicule the one thing she knew she was good at.

_"So like a human lie-detector?" Neal wanted to laugh or roll his eyes, something. Instead he did that thing where he nods along but won't make eye contact._ Telltale sign _, she should've said. "That's cool."_

She took one last glance in the mirror, the frame around which was one of the few spots of color in her room. She'd slowly integrated more accent pieces in an effort to liven up the place, now that she was using her bed for its intended purpose.

The contents of her closet peered back at her from beyond her reflection. Back-up dress options lined the bed she hadn't made, heels of varying heights formed a precarious border around the dresser, the clothes she'd taken to the laundromat close to three weeks ago sat neatly folded in their basket by the door. And occupying center space on an otherwise bare wall was a plain square chalkboard with eighteen tally marks.

_"It's very…white."_

_Killian took a tentative step inside, hands linked behind his back as he appraised the room Emma had been forced to inhabit, while she gathered her more delicate garments as swiftly as she could and shoved them under the covers before Killian could see._

_He sidestepped the boots she'd kicked off on her way to bed, buried beneath the jeans she'd worn the previous day. The shirts she'd mulled over that morning before deciding on a plain black turtleneck were strewn across the foot of the bed, offsetting the lily white comforter that matched the walls she hated and the blinds she meant to replace and the vanity she'd gotten for forty percent off the sticker price when she first moved in. The only contrast, she realized, came from her wardrobe—most of which was on haphazard display._

_In her defense, she hadn't planned to give Killian a tour._

_"Interesting…organizational system you have." He tilted his head to one side, his focus on the nightstand—also white._

_Emma followed his gaze to find the one bra that'd escaped her notice lying across her alarm clock, obscuring the time. She grabbed it fast and stuffed it in her back pocket. "I didn't get a chance to clean up."_

_Killian smirked like he knew this was the room's natural state, but he kept the teasing looks to a minimum_ _. Continuing his inspection, he walked to the window, opened the blinds, and peeked outside._

_"Not much of a view," Emma warned._

_She took it from his, "Hm," that he agreed._

_"So? Are we done here?"_

_Killian pulled the cord to close the blinds, blanketing the room in semi-darkness once more. "There's no need to be antsy. I'm merely trying to get a feel for what I'm working with."_

_"And?"_

_He smiled. "I've seen worse." Just when Emma thought she'd be rid of him, his eyes locked on the chalkboard above her bed, bearing four marks. "Are you counting down to something?"_

_"You could say that."_

_He looked at her, the questions he wanted to ask all but scrawled across his face—_ what started the countdown? What will end it? Is this a Land Without Magic thing or an Emma thing?

_"It's just something I started doing whenever I went to a new foster home, counting days so I wouldn't get too attached."_

_When the numbers got too high, she knew to hold her breath. Wait for the other shoe to drop. Which it did, without fail. Disappointment, oddly enough, was the only thing that'd never let her down._

_"What do they mark now?"_

_"Days since my last mistake."_

_Less than a day had passed between meeting Neal and liking him. Less than a month until like became love. The first time she'd said the words, "I love you," out loud had been the last day she'd ever seen him._

_Fifty-three days had passed between her date of incarceration and the day she learned she was pregnant. Nine between learning she was pregnant and concluding that the kid's best chance wasn't with her. After giving him up, it'd taken less than a millisecond—such an infinitesimal length of time—for her to be consumed with sadness unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Six hours for sadness to become an ache, the ache to become a chasm._

_Twenty-five months passed between her release and leaving Tallahassee. Eight days between stopping in Boston and making her stay permanent. It took approximately five seconds after running into Carter for the first time post-breakup—because of-fucking-course he'd relocated to the same city as her—for her to swear off men completely. And approximately five seconds after meeting a charming doctor for her to change her mind on that._

_Twenty days had been her limit with Brennan, and it was a wonder she'd lasted that long. It was ten minutes after ending things with him that she swore off men again—for real this time._

_And it was a full ninety-nine drama-free days later that a devilishly handsome stranger promised her a happy ending._

_"What mistake did you make four days ago?"_

_Emma didn't answer, and she saw the instant it clicked in Killian's mind._

_Hand to heart, he feigned a wince. "You've wounded me, Swan."_

_"If only."_

The dress was tighter than what she usually wore on a second date, and shorter than what was prudent during the height of winter, but it was a short walk to the car. They'd spend most of the evening inside well-heated, well-insulated buildings. She had a thick coat. It would be fine.

Besides, the look on Killian's face would more than make up for any mild discomfort—

_Brennan_ , she corrected. She was having dinner with  _Brennan._

That was the third time she'd done that in as many hours. His call must've rattled her more than she realized—she shuddered to think what might've happened if she'd answered.

He hadn't crossed her mind all week—

Okay, maybe  _once_.

Maybe twice.

But only to remind herself that she'd made the right choice in taking a step back.

She wasn't the best at making friends, but she could learn. Simply take a similar approach as with Killian, minus a few misread signals, unrequited attraction—and planting a kiss on them was clearly a no-go. Nothing she couldn't handle. She'd be fine. She just needed a little more time to let go.

Looking back at the accumulation of days, counted in such an easily erasable medium, she supposed it was a good thing she was used to being on her own. Her solitary streak wasn't about to end anytime soon.

—

_**Day Twenty-Nine** _

_Official._

Emma turned the word over in her mind, tried to apply it to Brennan in a way that wasn't laughable. When she envisioned a future, years from now, after they'd truly gotten to know each other, had worked out all the kinks, smoothed all the rough edges, the result wasn't what Emma would call  _happy._

Her perception could change over time, but was time an investment she was willing to make?

When he'd broached the subject over the phone two nights ago, Emma had gone quiet.

_"We don't have to decide anything right away,"_ he'd hurried to add.  _"It was just an idea."_

He hadn't brought it up again, and if he was as smart as his doctorate would suggest, then he wouldn't now. It'd been half an hour and no sign of imminent disaster, so maybe he'd ditched the entire concept.

Not including the few times they'd met for lunch during afternoons that Emma had free, this was their third date. As such, it was only natural that Brennan had certain opinions about how the night should end. He'd made it abundantly clear that he was eager to return to the relationship they'd once had—this time with feelings. But the inherent predictability of attempting to revive a spark that'd burned out wasn't something Emma pictured as her happy ending. Sort of anticlimactic when she thought about it. She kept telling herself, and Brennan kept reminding her, that it was different this time. They were different. They weren't fuck buddies anymore. This was the real thing.

"Emma?"

She broke from her trance to find herself staring down the front cover of a menu written in French.

"Would you like me to order for you?" Said Brennan.

"Uh, sure." She handed her menu to the waiter standing by. "Just…nothing with snails."

When it was the two of them again, Brennan asked her, "Are you all right? You haven't said much."

"Fine. I'm fine. Just tired."

"How about a toast to cheer you up?" Brennan reached for his—when did he order champagne? He raised his glass and waited for Emma to do the same. "To us."

_Shit._

This was it. He was going to put her on the spot. Force her into a discussion about where this was going.  _What are we? What do we mean to each other? I feel like we're not on the same page._ She scanned the bistro for the quickest, most easily accessible exit—

"And to taking things slow."

Emma hoped her relief wasn't too palpable as she clinked her glass with his. "To taking things slow."

She prepped her taste buds for the inevitable, laboring to shut off her gag reflex for the time it took to choke down the fizzy liquid.

It wasn't fair to compare people. Emma knew this. But she couldn't help thinking that Killian would've remembered her distaste for champagne. She'd only mentioned it once, but she didn't doubt that he'd locked it away for future reference.

And she couldn't help thinking that if she counted their relationship in dates, they'd be well past the third.

She'd shared more meals with him, more conversations over drinks that'd grown cold waiting for their attentions, had divulged more of her history to him than anyone. It was safe to be herself around him, even if the self she was that day grumbled about the weather or how useless their building's maintenance staff really was or how the guy who lived directly above her liked to practice an instrument that sounded like a cluster of dying cats at two in the morning. Killian wasn't intimidated by her temper. And he wasn't waiting for her to turn into some peppy positive person who looked at a dark cloud and saw the silver lining. Because he did.

The reason she'd gone out for New Year's instead of lying on the couch in her pajamas and stuffing her face with leftover Halloween candy while watching old movies, as per her original plan, was because Killian had been adamant that fresh air and over-the-top entertainment would lift her spirits. And he was right. Before their second near-incident effectively killed the mood, they'd given themselves over to the festive atmosphere, had danced to music that was more bass than melody, and Emma had even let him drag her to the karaoke machine, where they'd butchered classics from the 80s, 90s, and beyond—all without being drunk off their asses.

He'd made a carnival grow before her eyes just so she could take a night off from the worry that weighed her down.  _"When was the last time you made a priority of your own happiness?"_

"Emma?" Brennan watched her carefully, like he was searching for a diagnosis to assign her short attention span. "I lost you again—where are you tonight?"

"I'm here."

"What'd I just say?"

"Something about…Worcester?" His hard expression told her she couldn't have been more wrong. She reached for his hand across the table, determined not to drive away her normal, non-forbidden boyfriend. "I'm sorry. It was a long day."

More accurately, it'd been a long string of days. A bail jumper she'd been tracking had apparently wised up and learned how to better cover his trail. Emma was  _this_  close to handing the case over to a bounty hunter, but that felt too much like conceding defeat, and she wasn't ready to do that yet.

"I'm here. And I'm interested. Finish your story." Brennan gave Emma a withering look that made her laugh. "I'm riveted, I swear. Go."

She fully intended to keep her word and listen to Brennan's tale about scandal at the country club, and it wasn't a conscious choice to stop. But her mind retreated into itself until his voice was as clear as white noise.

"What do you want?" She heard herself interject.

"I'm sorry?"

"Out of life, the future—what do you see for yourself?"

"Nothing like light dinner conversation." Brennan chuckled. Emma had observed this to be a semi-frequent occurrence, like a nervous tic. The way someone else might scratch behind his ear. "I wouldn't know where to begin. Um…In some way, I'd say I've always been searching for home."

If she'd had a thousand guesses as to what he would say, that wouldn't even have made the list. At last, something they had in common.

_"Well don't look_ too  _surprised—it was bound to happen eventually."_

_Shut up, Killian._

"Something separate from my dad's legacy, you know?" Brennan continued. "Something that's solely…mine."

"Someone once told me that you don't have a home until you just miss it."

"Do you believe that?"

Not wanting him to think her sentimental, Emma shrugged. "It's as good a theory as any."

"Is there anything you miss?"

Either of a subconscious reflex or a nervous tell of her own, Emma averted her eyes. "Nothing comes to mind." After an exaggerated smile to put him at ease, she emptied her glass and started counting down the minutes until she could leave.

—

Brennan walked her to her door, not settling for just dropping her off outside her building, insisting that,  _"A gentleman would never."_  Where he'd discovered this newfound chivalry, Emma wasn't sure she wanted to know. Maybe he was hoping she'd invite him in, if he was nice enough. Maybe this change in tactic was merely a manipulation.

Maybe Emma was looking to rationalize still having one foot out the door.

She'd had a pleasant evening with someone who was genuinely interested and here she was suspecting him of having ulterior motives. Was it so outlandish to think he'd want to get to know her this time around? Or that he might've before but Emma had been too closed off? To think he'd grown up in the last year? To think they both had?

"I had a nice time tonight," said Brennan.

"Surprisingly, me too."

"Surprisingly?"

Emma smiled. "You know what I mean."

Brennan grinned the way he usually did before kissing her, and Emma felt herself ready to meet him in the middle when the sound of a nearby door stole her focus. She looked past her date to see Killian leaving his apartment. He stopped at the sight of them, taken aback.

As Killian tried to make sense of what he saw, as he looked to Emma for understanding, and as his features adopted an impartial expression despite the shadow that'd crossed his eyes, Emma quelled the urge to go to him. To explain.  _It's not what it looks like._

But wasn't it? Wasn't everything about this moment exactly what it seemed?

Worse than his confusion was his acceptance. He nodded once, said, "Swan," and continued on his way.

"Friend of yours?" Said Brennan.

Emma mustered a smile. "Neighbor."

He wore that same smirk, but it held no sway over her anymore, and this time when he moved in, Emma turned her face to the side and left a quick peck on his cheek.

"This was fun," she said. "We should do it again."

"Uh, yeah." Brennan stepped back, visibly puzzled as to how his charms could've failed him. "How's tomorrow?"

"Great. Perfect. See you then."

Emma shut the door before he could manage more than a strangled sound from the back of his throat.

—

_**Day Forty-Six** _

Satisfaction coursed through her as she stepped from the frigid wind into the warmth of the rent-by-night room that bore an uncanny resemblance to a motel chain in Oregon—even down to the hideous green paint on the outer walls. Emma wondered if spring would come at all that year, or if winter would retain its hold indefinitely. But it didn't matter that she couldn't feel her toes because days like this served as welcome reminders that she'd chosen the right profession. It was easy to forget when it felt like the cards were stacked against her, but not that day—that day, nothing could get her down.

Except dialing the wrong number.

"Swan. What a pleasant surprise."

_Fuck._

She wanted to hang up, treat it like a pocket dial, but she couldn't justify this action in a way that didn't feel painfully juvenile.

"Hi," she said, at a loss as to how she could possibly proceed. There was nothing to say to him. Nothing that could magically undo everything that'd happened. Everything that'd changed. Were they supposed to pick up where they left off, like long lost friends?

She'd meant to call Brennan, and considering his name was higher on her call log, it shouldn't have been feasible to confuse the two.

Okay, so maybe on some subconscious level, Killian was the first person she'd thought of when she finally—after three interminable weeks,  _finally_ —slapped the cuffs on her man. And maybe, for a split-second, she'd imagined how his unwavering support might sound to a spirit that'd spent each day away from Boston increasingly discouraged. But she hadn't meant to call him.

Their last conversation had taken place via text. She'd apprised him of the likelihood that her latest case could take her out of town, so he wouldn't worry if she didn't come home. Not that she expected him to pay her apartment any special attention.

"Just thought I'd…check-in."

"I'm glad you did."

Emma walked to the table next to the room's only window, where she set the plastic bag containing enough takeout for two people. She shed her jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, and collapsed into the inadequately cushioned seat. In surveying the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror by the bed, its surface warped with age so that it contorted a person's features like a funhouse attraction. Hearing Killian's voice again, and subsequently being hurled back into the frame of mind it evoked, had Emma seeing more truth in the image than illusion.

"I take it you apprehended your fugitive."

"Always do."

Before she had time to think twice about it, Emma was regaling Killian with events from past weeks, including how she'd tracked down her perp and how she'd lost him again, how it'd looked like he might get away for good until she had a stroke of genius—if she did say so herself—and about the fury on the guy's face when he knew the chase was over.

"That is quite the harrowing tale, Swan, if a tad embellished."

Emma rolled her eyes. If she didn't know he was teasing, she might've been offended. "Like you've never taken dramatic license with your stories. And besides, you're just bitter because I had an adventure and you didn't."

"Didn't I?"

"Break a nail scrubbing dishes?"

"Ha. Ha."

Emma smiled—she'd almost forgotten how calming the real thing could be. "So tell me."

As she listened to Killian describe something she'd only ever seen in movies, she was unable to piece together how her bad luck could've rubbed off on him when they hadn't seen each other in weeks. Hadn't spoken.

"And being a gentleman, what option was there but to intervene?" He went on about how he'd done his own bit of perp-chasing—quite skillfully, if he did say so himself—and had come out the victor.

"So what happened when you returned Mrs. Pasternak's purse?"

"That's where it gets complicated. After suffering her gratitude in the form of a rather spirited assault, and explaining to the officer she'd called to the scene that I was merely a concerned citizen and not the culprit he was looking for, he was prepared to let me off with a warning. As chance would have it, however, I bear striking resemblance to a man with an outstanding warrant, so I was taken into custody."

"You're kidding."

" _Where_  they tried to force feed me a horrendous substance they had the audacity to call meat—do you have any experience with bologna, Swan? If not, allow me to save you some pain. I forgive you for laughing, by the way."

It took Emma a minute to regain composure. "I gotta ask, what is it with you and this woman? She a past client or something? 'Cause she doesn't seem all that happy."

Killian's tone had lost its humor by the time he said, "Not a client, herself, no. Her husband was."

"What'd he wish for?"

"I'm afraid that's privileged information, Swan. You wouldn't want me sharing your secrets with other clients, would you?"

"Yeah, okay. Fair point." Emma kicked off her shoes and readjusted her seating, crossing her legs under her as she tore into her meal like she hadn't eaten in days—aside from gas station coffee and a couple stale pastries, she guessed she hadn't. "So, when you say you were a pirate, you mean like on the Disney Channel, right?"

"I'll have you know it's bad form to engage the elderly in combat."

Emma laughed around a mouthful of Szechuan chicken while Killian defended his reputation as a fearsome swashbuckler.

—

Two hours later, Emma pulled the covers up to her chin, displeased to discover that the heater she'd been looking forward to was broken. She lay on her back with her phone cradled between her shoulder and her ear. All lights were off, save for the TV, which showed a grainy depiction of a show she didn't remember being in black-and-white.

She and Killian had moved through more topics than she could keep straight, and at first it'd been the most natural thing in the world. But with each new anecdote, the elephant on the line grew larger. Killian had to sense it, too—it was something in which her  _guide_  should've taken an active interest. At the very least, her  _friend_  should've been mildly curious. But he was giving her nothing.

"So," she said, "make any new friends while I've been gone?"

_Real smooth, Emma._

"You know, an exceptionally inquisitive barista asked the same question during three of my last four visits. Seems quite concerned for me."

Emma held back a laugh. "You don't say."

"Other than that…Well, I don't imagine this falls into the same category, but I did meet with a colleague, couple weeks ago."

"You aren't in trouble—"

"Worry not, Love, nothing like that. I merely had a…favor to ask him."

Emma liked to think she was pretty good at reading people, even if all she had to go on was a voice over the phone. This ability was heightened around Killian. There was subtext even in his silence. This favor, whatever it was, had come at a steep price.

"While we're on the subject of acquaintances, how are things going with…I'm sorry, I didn't catch his name."

"Brennan."

Killian's response, if it could be called that, was a cross between a grunt and a scoff.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Something."

"I knew a Brennan once, that's all." Not a friend, by Killian's clipped tone. "He looked familiar."

"You remember Doctor Kelley?"

"Aye."

"Brennan is his son."

"Small world."

Though this turn had been Emma's doing, every minute of dead air that followed made her regret forsaking the ease and amiability of the past two hours for a quiet that could only be described as loaded.

Killian's next question cut through the stillness, catching her off guard. "Are you happy, Emma?"

"We've only had four dates." Immediately hating herself for needing him to know it wasn't serious, she added, "But we've dated before, so it's not exactly starting from scratch."

"Why did it end, if you don't mind me asking?"

She did mind. Not the asking itself, but her eagerness to answer. To dissect. To confide in him the many things that drove her crazy about Brennan—and not in the good way. It shouldn't have been this effortless to fall back into conversation with Killian, as though no time had passed.

"Timing was off."

"That is a common setback, of late."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Forgetting for a moment that some things were impossible to hear, Emma would've sworn she recognized the sound of a sad smile. "I've just noticed the time—you still have quite the journey ahead of you, so I'll say goodnight here."

Emma hesitated as a dozen different arguments caught in her throat.  _Time is relative—hell, it's still yesterday on the West Coast. Journey shmourney—I want to hear more about your misadventures. Did Stephanie Lynn ask you why we broke up? What if I'm not ready to say—_

"Goodnight, Killian."

She rolled onto her side, seeking a more comfortable position, and moved to hang up when Killian said, "Emma, I…" he sighed to himself like he was in the midst of an internal battle, a dozen different arguments crowding his throat. "I hope he makes you happy. Of all the clients I've had, you're one of the few truly deserving."

Emma said, "Thanks," but Killian was already gone.

—

_**Day Forty-Seven** _

She circled the block six times before pulling over. The only place still open at two in the morning was so close to Boston's city limits that she might as well have just headed home.

Emma stared out the windshield at a starless sky, her knuckles white from her death grip on the steering wheel. In her rearview, a lighted sign bragged that her destination was family owned and operated since 1978. Her hands shook when unbuckling her seatbelt, her legs when crossing the one-way street.

Too late to turn back now.

The bakery's exterior showed its age, but inside it was as clean and fresh as its modern counterparts. The woman behind the counter was all anxious smiles and clumsy movements, like Emma was the first customer she'd seen since the shop first opened. She offered Emma a free sugar cookie with her purchase and made a point of informing her that there was a wonderfully cozy B&B just down the road—the dead of night was no time to be traveling alone.

Emma set the pink box on the passenger seat and took a minute to collect herself, drawing a deep breath to stymie the tears her guilt had provoked.

_He'll forgive me. He'll understand._

If he were there now, he'd say,  _"This is your happy ending, Swan. Not mine."_

Which made what she was about to do that much worse. But what if the easy way was the  _only_  way?

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, even as she lit the candle she'd purchased at the mini-mart that shared its lot with her motel, growing to a full tremble when she held the cupcake up to her face. She closed her eyes and the words  _I wish_  readied themselves on her lips.

But she didn't wish.

She counted days.

Thirteen between meeting Killian and wanting to sleep with him. Less than one month before lust became like. The first time she'd called him a friend out loud had been the same day she'd almost kissed him.

For thirty-six straight nights  _almost_  had been her only occupying thought as she lay awake, telling herself it was a crush and she needed to get over it—she wasn't fourteen and Killian wasn't on the cover of Rolling Stone.

Six days into his self-imposed plan of detachment was the first time Emma thought she might miss him. Three days later, she knew she did. On the eleventh day of the new year, she nearly said it out loud. Twenty-five had been her breaking point, but instead of her intended outcome, the night ended in a kiss they'd been dancing around for months.

Emma stared wide-eyed at the flame, burning steadily as though it had all the time in the world for her to sort herself out.

It'd taken too many days, it'd taken absence, for her to notice the little things, no longer there. Like the depth of his dimples when he smiled just right—when he smiled at her. The way his entire body shook with laughter when he was especially tickled by something Emma had said. Completely contagious. She couldn't even be mad at him or say that it wasn't a joke because she finally understood what people meant when they said that some of life's best moments were its messiest.

The way he'd offer his coat whenever she was cold, and how it somehow always smelled like he'd just stepped out of the shower. Or the way he held the door open for her, no matter how many times Emma rolled her eyes—it was something guys did to say,  _"See what a gentleman I am?"_  But it didn't last. Once they got what they wanted there was no point in posturing. Killian was different. In every way that mattered, he was so unlike the others.

He'd picked up on just how easily startled she could be and he never pushed her beyond her emotional limits. At the same time, he wasn't afraid to call her on her bullshit when it was warranted. He told her she was special, that she mattered, and it dared her to believe that maybe she always had.

Only in that moment, parked in the middle of a deserted lot, with homesickness eating away at her the way it did to people who knew where they belonged, who they belonged with, did she realize that she couldn't go back to the life she'd once had. And she didn't want to.

The cupcake nearly flew from Emma's hands when she jumped, startled by her phone skittering across the dash. She smiled when it landed in her lap, and took the call's timing for a sign. But her excitement waned when seeing it wasn't Killian.

"Hey, I was gonna leave a message," said Brennan. "Didn't think you'd be up."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Well, I don't want to bother you—just making sure we're still on for tomorrow."

"Actually…" Emma blew out her candle. "We need to talk."

—

_**Day One** _

After knocking three times and getting no answer, Emma let herself in. The living room and kitchen were dark, with the apartment's only light coming from the bedroom. A man's shadow hurried down the short hallway, stopping suddenly when it reached the end.

His shirt was half-buttoned, half tucked inside his jeans, and his usual waistcoat was nowhere to be seen. "Emma? What is it? What's wrong?"

"I have to tell you something."

"Can't it wait until morning, Love?"

She smiled as nerves threatened to steal her confidence. What if his answer was the same as it'd been that day at the hospital? Was it worth risking her heart if the only thing she accomplished was him knowing how she felt?

"I know what my happy ending is."

The side of his face not cloaked in shadow was marked with small flecks that caught the low light. Emma might've found them strange if she and Killian didn't have the same hiding place. Despite the persistent cold, she knew where he'd gone—she doubted even the most inclement weather could keep a sailor from the sea. If the specs of sand didn't give him away, his windswept hair would have.

"Well, part of it—a pretty important part."

He didn't blink. Didn't even flinch. His jaw remained unclenched, his demeanor relaxed, like this was the speech he'd been expecting.

"That is excellent news, Swan. I'll order the paperwork drawn-up straightaway."

"Don't you want to know what it is?"

He averted his gaze, the action subtle, brief.  _A telltale sign._  Then he smiled. "One can only assume it to be your current beau. Congratulations."

Emma walked toward him, standing as close as two people could without touching. "Not Brennan." Resting her hands on either side of Killian's face, she let herself savor the softness of his scruff, the winter chill still in his cheeks, before she kissed him. Softly, deeply, and with the hope that it might convey all the things she didn't trust to words. This time, she was the first to pull back. She needed to look him in the eye when she said, "You."


	13. (12)

The doors screeched toward a slow close when Killian hit the button for his floor. Not the most encouraging sound from a machine that would determine if he came out the other side of the next two minutes intact. The super had sworn the lift was fixed, but Killian didn't think that word held the same meaning for everyone.

The tedium of mortal travel had him a great deal more agitated than he might've been had he started the day in a better attitude. Much more expedient to employ a portal—or better yet, disappear in a plume of smoke and arrive at one's destination with a mere flick of the wrist.

He'd have to get used to it, he supposed.

It'd been centuries since he'd stepped foot on a seafaring vessel. Since he'd guided a disbelieving crew through enchanted waters. Many long years since he'd been home. Sometimes he could still hear the creaking of planks, could feel the swell of ancient, restless waves. Most nights, the memory of a full moon across the bow was enough to lull him to sleep, despite the stillness of the earth and the staleness of the air and the artificiality of his own existence.

As he'd watched a gentle tide break upon the shore, Killian wondered if the council had known just how fitting his punishment would turn out to be. Often the call of the sea was no more than a minor ache. Often a crushing weight, intent to tear him apart from the inside. But never fully forgotten. Never gone. It would persist, in one extreme or another, forever.

The screech changed to a tinny whine as the elevator opened. Though the building was far from empty—indeed, there was only one vacancy Killian was aware of—the flickering hallway lights and the sound of his steps echoing around him and the steady cry of a deathtrap in descent afforded the place an air of desertion. He glanced over his shoulder when retrieving his keys, convinced, as Emma's door was cast in shadow by the first light to finally die, that he would never again see the other side.

_Killian stared down at the device, willing it to ring. Unsympathetic to his plight, the screen remained black._

_He'd thought about calling Emma as soon as she walked out, but he didn't want her answer to come from obligation. He'd thought about knocking on her door, but didn't want her to feel cornered. Trapped in the one place she should've been able to escape him. He'd thought of a dozen means of contact, from a quick_ I'm sorry _text to "accidentally" bumping into her in the hall, many of which left a less than savory aftertaste. He was starting to feel like a stalker, running her schedule over in his mind while trying to think up a chance encounter._ Fancy meeting you here, Swan—I wasn't aware you frequented this shop.

_Bloody pathetic._

_He thought of the way her voice had cracked when she'd asked for space, the way it'd caught when saying,_ "Please,"  _and suddenly_ pathetic _was too kind a word._

_She'd call when she was ready. The least Killian could do was respect her boundaries, even if the waiting drove him mad. In his experience, idle hours were the most haunted._

_He would have been infinitely better off if he'd never made that bloody wish—as would they all. His contract prohibited him from cautioning any client against fulfilling their wish before the deadline, or from encouraging them to scrap it outright. But if Killian had his way, he would tell every client he had to run and run fast. No good came from magic that he had ever observed. Caused more trouble than it was worth, and no matter how many laws the council drafted to try and gain some semblance of authority over an ungovernable force, it always,_ always _came with a price. Whether it be from negligence on the part of the wish maker to read the fine print, or some archaic condition it didn't occur to anyone to disclose, there was no such thing as a perfect wish. Every last one backfired, and never in the same way twice._

_His heart gave a small start when his phone lit up, and sank just as quickly when seeing it was merely another catastrophe. Killian considered himself a tolerant man, but to the best of his ability, he couldn't remember having as much difficulty mastering rudimentary tasks as his newest protégé. In all fairness, he'd been a proper adult at the time of his initiation, whereas Charlotte couldn't have yet been eighteen. Killian's heart sank a second time. He'd known the council to be opportunistic when scouting new blood, but he'd never paid much mind to how young some of the recruits were._

_Killian shook his head, ran his hands in a downward motion along his face, and got up from his couch in search of distraction, leaving his phone where it lay._

_But he found himself in the same position the next day, and the next. Seated across from a merciless black box while attempting to purge all traces of Emma from his mind. A futile endeavor if ever one existed. Every thought, even those seemingly random, seemingly obscure, without the faintest correlation to the current state of affairs, led back to her—reports of escaped convicts on the morning news, the discontinuance of what he'd thought to be a popular brew at her preferred coffee venue, the flyers posted outside the market advertising a spring festival the following month._

_He'd caught himself lingering at a shelf labeled, "Fairytale Classics," at the local library, wondering how many of them Emma had read, and if she would have been interested to learn about their true life counterparts. Peter Pan, for example, though Killian had only met him the one time, had left a less than favorable impression. Disappeared, by design Killian learned too late, without disclosing the cost of what he hadn't known would be Liam's last hours._

_Leafing through the pages, he smirked at many of the other characters depicted, marveling at the way tales varied from realm to realm. The legend he'd heard of Captain Hook—_

_Killian felt something tug his coat and looked down to see a young girl standing at his side, chewing her nails and staring up at him with wide, curious eyes. Before Killian could offer to help her, she pointed to the top row of books and then returned her hand to her mouth. Killian gestured to each option in turn as he read off the names,_ Pinocchio, Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood...

_She made a soft squeak when he came to the right one, leaning forward on the balls of her feet, terrified he'd skip past it._

_Killian smiled when handing the book to her. "I've always quite liked that one. Tough lass, Snow White."_

_Her face lit up and she hurried away without a word, rejoining a woman in the process of corralling a gaggle of children to whom she bore no physical resemblance. The girl Killian had helped flourished her book like a trophy, showing the cover to the others, and talking animatedly to a boy her same height, who was a tad stockier than his fellows. It was the sort of scene that demanded a surrender to nostalgia—Killian couldn't help but be reminded of his own youth, but before he got swept away, his mind wandered, as it'd done far too often of late, toward Emma._

_It was the part of his job he most hated, prying into a person's memory without their express consent. The council justified these_ glimpses _by claiming they helped a guide better cater to their client's needs. But Killian only ever felt predatory afterward. The image of a young Emma Swan who'd watched family after family come and go with a newly adopted daughter who wasn't her had stuck with Killian long after all others had faded. His childhood wasn't without its lonely hours, but at least he'd had Liam._

_After the tenth day of cellular inactivity—aside from the unavoidable—and of Killian taking too many turns about his own head, he reached the conclusion that he couldn't go back._

_It'd come at the end of another series of meaningless, purposeless, pointless days, wherein he'd had nothing to do except wander around without objective. The haste with which previous clients had seized upon opportunity prevented Killian from realizing what little life he actually had. And how large a monopoly the council had on his time—every waking moment dedicated to an administration that would've undoubtedly filled the villain's role, were this a fairytale classic. So well occupied, they kept him, that he scarcely noticed the years until they'd passed._

_Never had days stretched on as interminably as they did now._

_He was inescapably aware of just how dependent he'd become upon the whims of others. Outside his current client, what diversions did he have? What pursuits? His time had never been his own, he knew, but he'd never felt it as he did now—every second so agonizingly tangible. Like invisible shackles round his wrists._

_His chest tightened as though there was no air—and maybe there wasn't. Maybe there never had been._

_Killian got to his feet and paced the length of his apartment, unable to stand the static nature of his own reality. How was he worse off than he'd been at the start? When he'd begged a falling star to save him from the clutches of a darkness he'd chosen. A darkness he'd embraced._

_How could he take up his post again as though nothing had happened? How could he pretend that meeting Emma hadn't opened his eyes to the fact that he'd grown comfortable? That he'd accepted the cards he'd been dealt—from the moment he'd conceded defeat, the moment he'd taken Alistair at his word that there was no way out, not for them, he'd abandoned all hope. Not that there'd been much left after Liam. He'd contented himself with serving his sentence without complaint. But now…_

_Now he'd been shown for what he truly was. Not a changed man at all, not by far. It'd taken meeting a soul with scars like his own to sober him as to the illusion he'd crafted for himself. A fiction of his own making—one in which the joy on a client's face was enough to stave off the disaffected stirrings of a heart that would never know peace._

_It'd taken an ill-tempered, untrusting, compassionate, perfect person turning everything on its head for Killian to understand that he'd never done anything truly selfless in all his life. On the contrary, it was all a matter of self-preservation. He granted wishes because that was what the council told him to do. He was no closer to freedom than the night his father had fled, a coward, leaving his sons behind to work off his debts, no more in control than the moment he'd watched Liam put blind faith in a king who'd sent them to retrieve the very poison that'd killed him, no nearer the man of honor that'd once been his greatest aspiration than he'd been after that first sweetly seductive taste of rebellion. But Emma…_

_Emma made him want to rise above the ire that still twisted him up inside whenever he remembered his brother's final, choking breaths, whenever he heard his own small voice telling Brennan Jones,_ "I want to be just like you."

_When he was with Emma, there was peace for the first time in ages. And he knew the man he wanted to be._

_Without another second wasted, Killian took up his phone and dialed._

He wasn't foolish enough to believe that one conversation had mended everything that was awkward between them. Even though the plan, as Killian understood it, was for Emma to return to town later that day, that didn't mean she'd be ready to see him.

_"I hope he makes you happy."_

Killian had meant this—of course he had. How could he want anything less for her than everything she'd ever wanted for herself? But some part of him wished—

No, not wished. He'd learned his lesson on that.

Some part of him wondered—

But there was no point in that, either. She'd made up her mind. Killian wouldn't be surprised if when she finally spoke to him again, it would be to tell him that the man he'd seen her with was the one she'd been searching for all along.

He entered his apartment and was struck by its void-like atmosphere, the smallest sounds making the largest ripples across the dark. Waving his hand, he remembered too late why the lights couldn't answer.

Old habits.

Following heavy feet, he padded through the shadows to his room, flipped the switch, and was greeted by an empty bed, immaculately made. They were a dreary sight, these quarters, down to the barren walls and unoccupied shelves. The quiet was another thing he'd have to get used to.

The covers were as uninviting as he'd ever seen them, their lack of appeal perhaps due to the hours he'd spent under them in pursuit of a quarry that continued to elude him, a phantom that, once caught, was like a siren, dragging its victim to the treacherous fathoms below. On the off night that sleep condescended to take him, he only ever dreamt of one thing.

_Killian had expected him to laugh, to throw his head back with the might of it, but that didn't stem the flow of frustration presently overtaking him._

_Alistair sat forward, his shoulders shaking as he reached for his drink. Wiping a tear from the corner of each eye, he said, "This hasn't got anything to do with that little blonde number you're besotted with, has it?"_

_Killian bit back his denial. No argument on his part would convince the man seated across the table from him that his motives were anything other than untoward._

_He looked at Killian over the rim of his to-go cup, a triumphant gleam in his gaze as he took deliberate sips. "The council doesn't grant early retirement," he said with a grin to match that gleam. "To anyone. You, my friend, are stuck. Just like me, just like the lot of us—until the council is good and ready to cut you loose."_

_He'd been the same over the phone. Killian knew it would've made no difference were he aware of the struggle leading up to the call. No positive difference, anyway. Might've made Killian a tad more contemptible in his mentor's esteem, the fact that he'd fretted over his decision. Or that, in the end, the deciding factor had been that this was the most selfish thing he'd done in three hundred years—Killian couldn't remember when last he'd wanted anything for himself, when last he'd believed himself deserving of the free will his_ employers _had robbed him of._

_With Alistair's admonition in the forefront of Killian's mind, keeping him hesitant for as long as anything could—_ "They know about the kiss, Killian. To say they're displeased would be an understatement."— _he knew the likelihood that his actions would be viewed as a last ditch effort to win Emma. It hardly mattered that the council had means of weeding the lies out of a person—if they wanted someone decommissioned, no allegation was too small, or too easily fabricated._

_But the echoes of an idea had happened upon him as the half-light painted figures in his ceiling, soon to be erased by an impertinent sun. Not that the timing was any inconvenience—sleep hadn't visited him in days. Could it have been as simple as a failure to ask permission? Had his predecessors erred by scheming, whispering, lurking in shadows as they plotted escapes that flouted the council's authority? By being arrogant enough to think they wouldn't get caught?_

_The thought wasn't much, but it was more than Killian had had the day before._

_"Damned woman's got you talking rubbish—early termination, indeed." Alistair shook his head, speaking just loud enough for Killian to hear. "They'll terminate you, all right." He sniggered to himself. Then, with renewed vigor, he said, "You take a petition like this before the council, might as well kiss that pretty head of yours goodbye." A light crossed his face, as though this prospect had merit. "Not that I'd lament any such course. Gods know I've been waiting for the council to see you for the man you_ really _are." When a young woman passed wearing an apron the same burgundy of the shop's logo, he held up his empty cup and demanded, "Another."_

_"Doesn't work like that," said Killian as the barista shot their table a glare and disappeared into the storeroom._

_Alistair harrumphed. "Fine place you've picked, Jones. As ever, your taste leaves a little something to be desired."_

_"My taste isn't what we're here to discuss."_

_"Isn't it?_ _Highly doubt we'd be here, you had a penchant for brunettes."_

_"I haven't asked for your blessing."_

_"Just my unbiased aid." Alistair scoffed. "Still the same dull witted sod, aren't you? Still holding fast to hope in spite of everything—I suppose you think that makes you admirable. Somehow_ worthy _of the council's good favor." He sat back in his seat, the contempt he'd kept caged behind a thin layer of sarcasm emerging now as a snarl. "You've always fancied yourself better than the whole—poor put-upon Jones, how he's suffered! He didn't ask for this—but an innocent victim, he is. Saint, really, for breathing the same air as the rest of us, who've_ earned _our lot—"_

_"No, then."_

_Alistair sneered._

_Killian nodded once and got to his feet._

_"Look on the bright side, Jones," Alistair called after him, but Killian didn't turn around. "There's still End of Term to look forward to. You know, when your bonny lass—" he broke into a fit of guffaws, punctuated by each new word, "forgets—who—you—are."_

_The sound followed Killian outside._

If given the option, he wouldn't change what he'd done. He couldn't help the disappointment that'd resulted from his call with Emma, but he was a long way off from regret. Regretting his actions felt too close to regretting her.

A client once told him—the same client, incidentally, that Emma had inquired after over the phone—that it was better to care for something he couldn't keep than to never open himself up in the first place.

_"Better to have loved and lost, and all that."_

_The old man cocked his head to one side and gave Killian what he'd once referred to as_ the stink-eye _. "Horseshit. Whoever told you that knows a sucker when he sees one."_

_Killian arched his brow and the old man grunted._

_"Me, was it? Well, I rest my case." He shifted in his bed, seeking a comfortable position—a fruitless pursuit most days. Then, winking at Killian, he said, "Saw you comin' a mile away."_

Killian debated taking a shower. He scarcely noticed the cold anymore, but its effects were unrelenting. The way his limbs were slower to respond, his skin hidden under a coat of goosebumps. He couldn't help smiling, even now, at how susceptible Emma was to it. Few things kindled her grumbling faster than a sudden drop in temperature.

He removed his jacket, tossed it to land on the navy comforter, and started on his waistcoat. At the same time that he turned his attention to his shirt, he heard something that sounded like a knock at his door. Knowing this to be wishful thinking claiming a neighbor's visitor as his own, Killian went back to the business of undressing. A second knock, and then a third seemed to coordinate themselves with the buttons he'd undone.

The next sound wasn't as easily ignored. He hurried to the living room, trying all the while not to run away with his imagination, but the only person who had a key, other than himself and the building's manager, was—

"Emma?"

She stood across from him like a vision. Had it really only been two weeks since he'd seen her?

That she'd come at this hour, what must've been immediately after they'd hung up—

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"I have to tell you something."

"Can't it wait until morning, Love?"

Her confidence wavered on the way to a smile as she mulled over her response. When at last she found the words, they sparked a ringing in Killian's ears. "I know what my happy ending is." She shifted from one foot to the other, wrestling with her nerve. "Well, part of it—a pretty important part."

Keeping a straight face was a feat unto itself when Killian felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He'd known it was coming, but he wasn't prepared. "That is excellent news, Swan. I'll order the paperwork drawn-up straightaway."

Alistair would surely revel in this latest development. Killian could almost hear his wheezing, hacking, tormenting laugh as he put in the request. _"Now, you know I'm not one to say, 'I told you so,' but I will say this: my favorite twist is one that's well deserved."_

"Don't you want to know what it is?"

He didn't think he could stomach it, but what choice did he have? Killian saw his life for what it'd become. Measured in futility. Tainted by inaction. He saw his fate, plain as day. Living across from her, from _them_ while they fell deeply, madly, passionately in love. The scene felt eerily like another. But there was no star to save him now.

He put on what he hoped was a sincere smile and said, "One can only assume it to be your current beau. Congratulations."

Had he not been the one to remind Emma every hour, on the hour, that time was short? How was it he'd been unperturbed by her indecision? Certain that if she hadn't chosen someone by the second month or the third, a short separation wouldn't change anything—

His thoughts were interrupted when Emma walked toward him, standing so achingly close Killian was tempted to eliminate the space entirely, to draw her forward, express himself in a manner not to be misinterpreted. But what gentleman would he be if he gave himself over to such an impulse?

"Not Brennan." She placed her hands on either side of his face, warm fingers grazing the stubble along his jaw. And then she was kissing him with an ardor that aimed to unmake him. She pulled away too soon, leaving Killian with only a taste of the future he was never meant to have. When he met Emma's gaze, her eyes were clearer than he'd ever seen them. "You."

Words had never failed Killian as completely as they did in that moment. Was this the sort of surreal euphoria that prompted clients to insist he pinch them?

Emma took a step back, and the cold Killian had once thought himself immune to reached clear to his bones. "I know what you said, and I know nothing can happen." She smiled, but it was a poor mask, unable to hide the quiver in her lower lip. "But I had to tell you. If things were different—"

"If things were different," said Killian, grateful his voice hadn't forsaken him after all. He took her hand, closed it in his, "would you still be here? If there were no rules, no...restrictions, would you still be saying this?"

He read the answer in her eyes before she whispered, "Yes."

"Then there's something you should know."

_For all Alistair's blustering, he had a point. Killian hadn't been thinking about the long-term ramifications of his request, or the mess he'd be in if it was denied._

_What would happen to Emma in the case that Killian disappeared? Without a trace, without warning or explanation? Would the memory of him vanish just as suddenly? A replacement sent in his stead, assigned to reverse the havoc his emotional investment had wreaked?_

_Try as he might to deny it, there was a part of him—what started small but grew inconveniently larger as the nights grew longer, rest more elusive—that couldn't contend with inevitability as it turned the toll of Emma's time away to its advantage._ _If he missed her now, when she lived just across the hall, how much worse would it be once their time was up?_

_Would she have forgiven him if he'd gone through with it? If everything had gone wrong? Would she have known? Or would she merely have woken up one morning and gone about her life, oblivious to the man who would think of her every day?_

_Would he have been able to live with himself if he hadn't at least tried?_

_Killian halted outside the building's main entrance, watching through the glass as a bustle of bodies hastened toward their life's appointments. He didn't know any of them by name, but he recognized the faces he'd passed in his comings and goings. Most were distracted by incoming calls, outgoing texts, some with shouting clipped orders to children who'd fallen behind. By the time Killian added his face to the crowd, a first floor tenant was haranguing the head of maintenance, who had a far-off look in his eyes as though he were imagining himself on a white sand beach with a tropical drink in each hand._

_A short chime cut through the din, and Killian glanced across the lobby to see a group of dour teenagers exit the now working elevator. Temptation was brief—given the noise the doors made upon closing, and the state of the survivors, Killian opted for the stairs._

_There was what looked like a heap of discarded linens curled up and unconscious on his doormat, emitting a familiar snore. That he'd arrived before Killian was one question answered—Alistair had gotten careless with regards to nonessential magic. Killian quelled an impulse to kick his slumbering mass awake, settling instead for letting the door splay him across the threshold as it opened._

_With a startled snort, Alistair's eyes popped open and he regained his feet, shaking the dirt from his coat and adjusting its rumpled collar. "Took the scenic route, did you?"_

_"Are you here to gloat some more?"_

_"Would that I were." Alistair looked from Killian to the waiting apartment and back again. "Going to invite me in?"_

_"I wasn't planning on it, no." Killian entered his residence and threw the door to slam behind him, turning back when the accompanying sound failed to follow._

_"As I recall," said Alistair as he ambled across the entryway, "you used to be a tad warmer with your welcomes—nigh on hospitable."_

_"Oh, I still am. With people I actually care to see. You have made it abundantly clear you've neither time nor inclination to suffer my company, so you'll forgive me if I don't bid you stay for tea."_

_"I take it you'd have no interest in hearing the council's verdict, then?"_

_"Did I miss another trial?"_

_Alistair strolled about the living room like a man completely at his leisure, casting appraisals of the décor. "Bit of a step up from the barracks back home." When Killian continued to appear bored, Alistair pursed his lips, the way he was prone to do when refusing to admit his annoyance. "Straight to the point, then. Very well. When we parted ways, I gave your appeal a second thought."_

_The hair on the back of Killian's neck stood on end, foreboding tearing through him like an angry blade. Alistair had all the tact of a rabid dog, especially concerning Killian, which was why Killian had put his trust in protocol. He should've been allowed to plead his case, give testimony in his own defense. Alistair was never meant to go alone._

_"You petitioned the council? How? I only just left you—"_

_"Come now, Jones—after all your travels, after all you've seen, is time now so finite a thing? So fixed?"_

_"But you said—"_

_"'Now here is an opportunity doesn't come round every day,' I said to myself. Rather peeved I didn't think of it sooner, to tell the truth. In light of your…" he gave Killian a onceover, as though he were just another knickknack on a shelf—a shrunken ship inside a bottle, "…_ indiscretion _, really only one way the council could vote. Been ages, hasn't it, since we've had a proper execution."_

_Terror closed like a vise around Killian's heart. "You're here to take me in."_

_"Nothing would bring me greater pleasure." Alistair bore the same sinister grin he'd had at the coffee shop not an hour prior, then he clicked his tongue against his teeth and said, "Alas, the council is of another mind. Gone soft, the lot of them."_

_"I don't follow."_

_Alistair searched the ceiling, his lips moving soundlessly as though asking an unseen deity for the strength to go on. "You're being cut loose."_

_Killian didn't say anything. He regarded the man across from him as he would a puzzle. For years, Alistair had declared himself Killian's adversary to anyone who'd paid him a shred of attention and had vowed to be the source of Killian's downfall._

_"Is this a trick?"_

_"Beg your pardon?"_

_"Well, it's all a bit easy, isn't it?"_

_Alistair grinned a humorless grin. "You've caught me, Jones. I've come all this way for the passing triumph of raising your hopes only to see them dashed—hm…" he had a look about him that implied any such plot would've brought more amusement than the one he'd undertaken._

_Still wary, Killian stayed silent, lest he betray the excitement rising in him like a high tide._

_"Though I may loathe you beyond reason and await the day you meet a slow and painful end—by my hand, in an ideal world…" in conjunction with these words, Alistair's hands balled into fists, and for Killian, it was the first sign to suggest he might've been telling the truth, "it is not my judgment we'll be abiding here today."_

_Killian took a step back, as though doing so would remove him far enough from the situation so as to gain proper perspective. "You can appreciate how this comes across. From you of all people…"_

_"Used to be a man's word was all the guarantee a person needed."_

_Killian arched his brow._

_"What would you have me say, Jones? What will convince you? Shall I pull up the transcript, hm? Read it back? Summon the council for an evening's polite questioning?"_

_"A mite of proof wouldn't hurt."_

_"'Proof,' he says. The man wants proof." Alistair reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew a slip of paper, which resembled a client contract except that it was rolled up like a scroll. "I've got your bloody proof right here." He unfurled the parchment and handed it to Killian, who was taken by disbelief stronger than any previous, but of a kind that makes the pulse race and the blood run hot. The sort of amazement that says, "This is no hoax."_

_Killian read over clauses, stipulations, and finely printed disclaimers, all of an identical nature to a thousand agreements he'd seen. But the thing that sold him was the emblem that ran across the page like a watermark—not only illegal but magically impossible to counterfeit, it spoke to the document's authenticity as nothing else could._

_"That's about the look I had when I read it."_

_Killian looked up to see Alistair, who was appropriately hostile, standing close. "This is a Termination of Contract."_

_"Well, what did you think I'd given you? Early Valentine?" Alistair glowered as he pulled a second item from the same pocket, this one appearing too large to have been able to fit without creating a tent in the material. "Nearly forgot."_

_Before Killian could ask what it was, Alistair had closed it around his wrist._

_The effect was instantaneous—no sooner had the cuff made contact with his skin than Killian felt his energy deplete, his strength diminish, like something was sapping his lifeblood. And maybe something was. He felt weightless, boneless, without form. He closed his eyes for the unpleasant rush of it._

_Somewhere in the distance, Alistair's voice fell to a dull hiss, muffled by what could've only been thunder pulsing in Killian's ears, but every so often an errant word broke through—_ side effects, death, legal recourse…

_It was like he'd been orbiting the mortal realm for centuries and was only now coming back to himself, with all the grace of a bird that's been blasted from the sky. His limbs felt dense and buoyant at the same time. Rigid yet pliant, and strained from overexertion._

_He woke from a stupor to find himself seated on the couch, staring up at Alistair, whom he tried to blink into focus._

_"Do get on with it, Jones—you aren't my only order of business."_

_The parchment was like a barely-remembered dream. Killian looked down at it, resting in his lap, a quill already clutched in his right hand. Once his signature was complete—rather an unsightly scrawl, if his vision could be trusted—the page rolled itself into its former scroll and returned to Alistair's hand, along with the cuff, and Alistair secured them safely in the coat pocket from whence they'd come, patting the area flat again._

_"Well, that's one matter settled. I'll be off, now." Alistair's tone turned scornful when adding, "I'm sure your ladylove will be beside herself at the news."_

_Killian watched as through a thinning haze as Alistair approached the exit, then stopped._

_"Do you suppose if I'd…the council, do you suppose they'd have…if I'd…?"_

_He didn't know if it was his present lightheadedness distorting his perception, but Killian could've sworn Alistair had transformed, if only for a second, into the man he'd known so long ago. The one whose wit was good-naturedly self-deprecating, never pointed, far from the bitter loathing it now possessed. The man who'd loved and lost and never returned._

_Seeing his rage slowly ebb, slowly slip into a look of unsettling epiphany, took Killian back to when he'd first learned of Alistair's grievous misstep. To the murder in his eyes and the spitting words that vowed retribution as he'd closed his hands around Killian's throat. To the flood of silent tears that'd washed away all traces of vengeance as quickly as they'd formed when he released his hold and staggered away._

_Killian answered in a shaky voice, so unlike his own, "I don't know."_

_Alistair gave him a sad smile. "Something to ponder, eh?"_

_And then he was gone._

Emma gaped at Killian, unblinking. "Wait…so you're not…?"

Killian shook his head.

"When did this happen?"

"Not long after you asked for time apart."

Ten days, precisely—not that Killian was counting. But after living so long under eternity's thumb, even the slightest changes had a way of ingraining themselves.

Emma looked away from him, casting her gaze downward until it locked on their joined hands, seeming at war with the idea of letting go. He couldn't decide if her tone was one of insult or dread, or some combination of the two. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He'd been on the verge of doing just that,  _spilling his guts_ , as it were, about the favor he'd mentioned over the phone. But then the not-so-distant past had barraged him with images of the date he'd interrupted. The stunned silent expression that'd matched his own, searching for an explanation that never came. Killian mouthing something that could've been her name—it'd been hard to hear over the ground falling out from under him.

"You weren't exactly keen to speak to me at the time. And last I saw you…"

By her expression, Killian didn't have to fill in the blank. She appeared lost to her own thoughts, her brow furrowing with the strain of them. "Is that why you called me? To tell me you quit your job?"

Killian fought a smile, as well as the urge to tell her it'd been a _bit_ more complicated than handing in his resignation. "I called to apologize. For letting you believe our kiss meant nothing." Emma's features softened as her eyes turned swiftly back to his. "Or that I didn't want what you wanted, when the truth is, I was afraid." He took a breath to ready himself for the next part, aware of the risk that came with saying too much. As though to anchor himself, he cradled the side of Emma's face, and took courage from the fact that she didn't rebuff him. "I didn't know there were still things worth fighting for, until I met you, but the simple act of knowing you has changed me in ways I never thought possible. You've inspired me, Emma, to be a better man than the one I'd settled for."

His pulse quickened when nothing happened—that is to say, nothing changed. Time continued forward, counting moments, but the thickness of silence endured, holding Killian captive, and giving paranoia full reign over his thoughts. He'd made too effusive a speech, declared himself too soon—

Then again, she'd come here with the intent to tell him he was part of her happy ending, hadn't she?

_A pretty important part—_

Emma moved in as though a spell had been broken, her body melting against Killian's like it'd been made to fit. A low, satisfied sound left her the instant her lips reclaimed his, and at first, they were content just to kiss, just to be allowed the indulgence previously off-limits to them. There was something exhilarating about the unhurried nature of it. About no longer needing to be afraid—they were free of the threat that, until now, had kept Killian careful. Kept him safe.

He hadn't realized until that moment, marked as it was by slow touches that wandered, little by little, beyond the barriers of a still lingering fear, that safe was a curse wholly unto itself. Safe was isolation and anonymity. It was silence and solitude. Biting his tongue and bowing to orders and buckling under the weight of immortality.

Safe was turning his back on the person who'd broken through defenses he hadn't known he'd put up—the light that'd chased away the shadows of a wasted life.

Nervous anticipation settled into Killian's stomach as Emma's hands explored their way across his bare skin. He was far from inexperienced, but the thought of being with Emma had him remembering younger years, when the inviting looks he'd always received had him convinced he wouldn't be a blundering, fumbling git the first time he acted on a sinful grin. But even in his youth, he hadn't felt like this.

There could be no doubt in his mind that Emma Swan would be the death of him.

She finished the job he'd started of removing his shirt, her fingers working nimbly over the remaining buttons and pulling the garment off his shoulders, down his arms. Killian returned the favor, helping shed her coat and the sweater she wore underneath, the tank top beneath that—

"Bloody hell, Swan—have you got enough layers?"

"You know I get cold."

"Hm..." Killian's roving hands took a moment to appreciate the fit of Emma's jeans before they gained a grip to lift her, eliciting a soft gasp as she secured her legs around his waist. "Let's see if we can't find a way to warm you."


	14. (13)

Emma heard the first _crack_ mere milliseconds before her leg gave out from under her, the next when her body tried to compensate for balance, to ruinous result. As she stared up at an arched ceiling decorated with lights from a birthday party that'd taken place earlier that day, she realized she should've seen this coming. She'd managed to stay upright for a full five minutes before devastation struck—a personal best. But instead of taking inspiration from this small victory, she chose to accept her limitations.

"I quit," she said to her instructor, a shadow looming over her, outlined by fairy lights. "I forgive you for laughing, by the way."

Taking pity on what must've been a pathetic sight—Emma's arms and legs outstretched, as though she'd paused in the middle of making a snow angel—Killian lay on the ice beside her. "You're finally starting to make some progress."

"Don't care. This sport sucks. And you suck for being good at it."

"Need I remind you, Swan—this was not my idea."

"I still blame you entirely."

Killian laughed. Again. Emma resented her inability to take part, resented her body for failing to grasp something that looked so simple. Not the most difficult concept—strap on skates, follow partner onto ice, join ranks of Olympic elite. It hadn't occurred to her that she wouldn't take to it, that this, too, would reject her. Killian had an easy enough time of it, and he wasn't even from here. Did they freeze water for fun in other worlds?

He was right about it being her idea. Sort of. She'd mentioned in passing that she'd never been ice skating, and with Killian that was as good as signing up for lessons.

It'd become something of a routine during the six weeks they'd been together for them to set aside one date per week that consisted of an activity one or both of them had never tried. A few weeks back, Emma had taken Killian to a concert—his first ever—that'd left both of them somewhat worse for hearing the rest of the night.

_She knew he must've been yelling, but he sounded like he was going through a tunnel, or she was. His mouth moved, but every other word seemed to be swallowed by an invisible chasm. "What?" She said again, and again she was left to read his lips. With no success._

_Eventually he gave up, grabbed her hand, and they walked to the car._

_It took them longer than they would've liked to navigate traffic in search of sustenance (Killian may have resorted to miming, his fingers curled around an unseen utensil while his other hand supported a plate of air). A full hour after leaving the arena, they ducked into an odd little hotdog venue, and Killian was finally able to say, though his voice was still soft to her desensitized ears, "Your land never ceases to amaze."_

_Emma smiled at him across the bright red table (complete with bright yellow chairs, short and round and wobbly), knowing she was about to be completely cheesy and relishing every second of it. "Our land."_

_Killian nodded, returning her smile. "Our land."_

_Only when a couple waiting in line looked over did Emma realize how loud they actually were. She and Killian took their order to go, only holding back their laughter until they reached the sidewalk outside._

The week before that, they'd lost their reservation at some stuffy restaurant that reminded Emma of the sort of place Brennan would take her, and they'd been forced to improvise, grabbing a late dinner at a pub and, since they were there, drowning the evening in a few spirits to which Killian had lost his tolerance, despite his lofty claims to the contrary.

They'd woken up the next day feeling their respective ages and had spent the daylight hours nursing hangovers and watching Netflix with the blinds closed so tightly Killian's place felt more like a cave than an apartment.

_"Never let me do that again."_

_Killian raised their joined hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to the back of Emma's. Not an agreement to her terms, which they both knew she'd break, but an assurance that he'd be there when she did, her partner in inebriation._

Now that she thought of it, their first date was the only one that'd gone off without a hitch. Nice restaurant—not too pretentious. Pleasant atmosphere. Cab ride home that could've come with its own MPAA rating.

Emma found that she preferred for their dates to go a little wrong. They were more memorable for being imperfect. Case in point: the one month mark, when their plans for a quiet evening in had somehow been swapped for Killian sneaking Emma into the fairgrounds they'd gone to on Thanksgiving, now abandoned, at well past one in the morning.

_"It's still here," said Emma, stating the obvious as she peeked between the slats of what was meant, by the looks of it, to be a temporary fence._

_She had one leg over the top when it occurred to her that this wasn't the first time she'd trespassed in an amusement park, and she almost told Killian as much. But the thought felt too much like a bad omen, and she really couldn't afford to jinx anything else._

_"I thought it would've…I don't know—"_

_"Disappeared?" Killian filled in for her as he climbed down._

_"Well, yeah."_

_"So did I."_

_Emma didn't ask about Killian's use of magic and whether it'd somehow altered the park's elemental composition so that its contents couldn't be removed by mortal hands. Or if the Ferris wheel and the bumper cars and the miniature racetrack were now fixtures of the landscape. But these things did cross her mind as they walked hand-in-hand through the carnage, past empty tents and misshapen exhibits, through the midway where they'd exhausted most of their cash, in silent agreement that they weren't leaving until one of those gilled bastards was theirs._

_"So it's a permanent attraction now?"_

_"It would appear so. Though, I'd wager it hasn't done much attracting of late."_

"We'll have to pay for those skates, you know," said Killian, still smiling.

"Collateral damage, my friend. Take it up with the universe." Emma turned her head toward him, her neck the only part of her inclined to move. He looked for all the world like he was having the best time. And maybe he was. Maybe Emma was, too, but she wasn't about to say so. "I can't be held accountable for the fallout from a feud I didn't start."

"So now it's a feud?"

"You didn't think I was going to take it lying down, did you?" Killian gave her a onceover, letting his brow answer for him. "Shut up."

"Speaking of the universe…"

Whatever smile had been forming dissolved into a frown as Emma said, "Not tonight, Killian."

"Not tonight, not any night."

"You know how I feel about it."

"And you know I believe it to be the only reasonable option."

"Believing isn't knowing."

Killian sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "Can you think of another way to stop it?"

Emma sat up despite her every muscle's protest. "What if it can't be stopped? What if it isn't a side effect of anything? It could be global warming for all you know, and you want me to risk… _everything_ on a hunch."

Killian didn't say what Emma knew was on his mind, what'd been on his mind for weeks as neither side showed any sign of conceding. Emma didn't think either side ever would.

What _she_ hadn't said had more to do with fear than pride. It wasn't that she was afraid of being wrong, but of what might happen to Killian if she was right.

The first time he'd broached the subject of her as of yet un-granted wish, she'd shrugged it off. They had time—why waste the early days on arguing? But the more Emma's luck turned from bad to worrying, and the longer it took for spring to chase away winter's chill, as the days grew darker and weather systems became increasingly unstable, the more Killian maintained that wishing would set the world to rights again. It was all symptom of an imbalance, as far as he was concerned.

_"It doesn't have to be anything extraordinary—you could wish for something small, like an apple. Then we can be done. Don't you want to be done?"_

It wasn't as cut-and-dry for Emma. She didn't begrudge Killian his logic—she understood where he was coming from. But if anything could be taken from his early _termination_ , as he'd called it, it was that his knowledge of the rules wasn't as comprehensive as he'd once thought. He wasn't supposed to fall for a client, but he did. He wasn't supposed to be let out of his contract, but he was. As much as these things delighted Emma, they told her that there were variables she couldn't account for.

_"You're the one who said wishing is dangerous—so dangerous, they don't let guides warn clients, remember?"_

Killian couldn't know that every time he suggested she _get it over with_ , it dredged up the guilt-stained memory of how close she'd come to sentencing herself to a life without him.

Now that she knew what them together was like, she couldn't go back. She didn't want to. It'd only been six weeks, but they were six weeks she wouldn't trade for a thousand wishes. A thousand happy ends.

If she didn't know the rules, how could she know Killian wouldn't disappear, like he was supposed to before? That they wouldn't be separated somehow? Did his no longer being her guide protect them from the conditions that'd applied when he was?

With Emma's luck, she'd take one bite of said apple and drop dead.

"Isn't this what killed our last date?"

Killian mirrored Emma's seated position and took one of her gloved hands in his. "You're right. I'm sorry. We can talk about this another time."

Not exactly dropping the subject, but Emma would take what she could get.

It was a comfortably quiet minute before he spoke again, and by that point, Emma was feeling parts of her body she hadn't known existed. Parts that apparently hated her.

"What _would_ you wish for?"

"Killian—"

" _If_ …" he held up one hand, "…there were no side effects or impending doom. If you could have anything in this moment, what would it be?"

"I'm probably gonna need a chiropractor after tonight."

Killian's smile worked wonders on her mood—damn him. "I'm serious."

Sensing that he was trying to steer the conversation toward the vicinity of romantic, Emma chose, for once, not to be difficult. And seeing as they _were_ on a date, the least she could do was play along.

She closed her eyes and thought of what she wanted most. Romantically speaking, there was really only one thing that came to mind—

Before the thought was fully formed, she felt Killian's lips against hers, gentle yet persuasive, and it wasn't long until her anxiety was all but forgotten. She didn't have to ask how he knew. The man was entirely too perceptive for his own good—or Emma's. She pulled him closer by the collar of his coat, lest he get any ideas about leaving her wanting. When he inevitably broke contact, he regarded Emma with the same affectionate gaze she didn't think she'd ever get used to.

No matter how much of herself she revealed to him, that look never changed. She was waiting for the one that said, _"Our time has run its course."_ For years she'd tried to pinpoint the moment Neal decided he'd had enough, and for years the truth had been staring her in the face. The reason she'd never noticed it was because it hadn't just appeared one day, out of the blue. It'd been there from the beginning. It wasn't there now, with Killian. Emma was starting to think, starting to hope—possibly to her own detriment—that maybe she was on the lookout for something that would never come.

"Killian…"

Her mouth hung open with her attempt to tell him what'd been on the tip of her tongue for the six weeks they'd been together, pushed to the back of her mind in the months before that, what'd started as a silent stirring in the hollows of her broken heart far too soon after she'd met him. There was almost a sound that was almost a word that was the closest she'd come to actual speech in all the times she'd tried…

…

**_Six Weeks Ago_ **

"This one."

Emma traced the scarred flesh that rose against her fingertips, a jagged line across the back of Killian's arm that looked like the victim of a hurried stitch, the skin sewn together with concern for time over aesthetic.

Killian grinned, his head resting on a pillow too fluffy not to be new, his eyes putting its navy cover to shame. "Jealous husband. Fortunately for me, his aim wasn't as strong as his outrage."

Emma quirked her brow, her hand lying still.

"In my defense, I had no knowledge of her marital status prior to our dalliance."

Narrowing her gaze, Emma decided he was telling the truth—not that she had room to judge another person's romantic history—and moved on to the next mark.

"Though I can't see it being much of a deterrent, if I had."

Killian winced, whispering a curse, when Emma pinched his side. Shooting her a suggestive smirk, he said, "Remind me to put that violent side to good use," but rolled away from her next assault. When she tried for a third, aiming for the general target of his chest—if she _happened_ to hit a particularly sensitive spot, so be it—Killian grasped her arm and pulled her farther forward than she'd intended, using the added momentum to steal a kiss.

Smiling against his lips, Emma said, "That's cheating."

To which Killian replied, "Pirate," and moved in for more.

Emma freed herself with some reluctance and flattened a line in the blankets between them. "Stick to your side, _pirate_. I have more questions for you."

"What if I said I have a few, myself?"

"I'd say, of the two of us, there's only _one_ who hasn't conducted secret investigations behind the other's back."

Killian ran his tongue between his teeth, not wanting to surrender the point, and Emma considered the benefits of letting herself be diverted—they'd spent months talking, they'd only just started...this. They hadn't put a name to it yet, but it was the farthest from a one-night-stand as she'd come in a long time. If there was one thing her subconscious had gotten right, it was that Killian had a _very_ clever tongue. And Emma was driven to distraction by the promise of a more thorough demonstration.

"What would you like to know?"

She contemplated her next question. There were a few she'd been mulling over for a while that she'd been hesitant to ask. Whenever the subject of his past came up, Killian had the tendency to evade any real discussion—not that Emma had room to judge another person's emotional baggage. She didn't know if it was this new phase they'd entered into, or if learning that her interest hadn't been one-sided all this time, but she wanted to know everything about him, all at once. Where was he born? How old was he when his father left? Did he wonder about his mother as much as Emma wondered about hers? What was it like having a brother?

She contented herself with time. Here, at the start, it was infinite. Now that Killian wasn't her guide, they could get to know each other in a way they'd previously shied away from, when getting too attached was a risk they couldn't afford.

This new level of intimacy should've sent her running. All the affectionate touches and teasing that came _after_. She was used to the before—to the rush of moments as breaths hitched and pulses raced and skin prickled with the spark of expectancy, as somewhere between the hallway and the bed they fell prey to a want that couldn't undress them fast enough. Emma couldn't say with any certainty that she hadn't been the first to break. Or that she hadn't taken Killian matching her stride for ungraceful stride as a sign of how long it'd been for him, too.

No first time was perfect, and theirs was no exception. But for all its inelegance, there were moments—like her name pulled from his lips, a wrecked and reverent sound, when she angled her hips _just_ right—where perfect couldn't quite compare. Moments where instinct surpassed speech and it felt like they were retracing steps they'd taken in another life.

She'd never given much credence to the idea of alternate realities, not in any practical sense, but she was starting to consider some things less critically. With magic not only being real but a larger factor in the everyday than she could've imagined, it stood to reason that there were any number of supernatural forces at play.

Just how fictional _was_ science fiction? And how many people had she met in her life whose happiness was owed to a wish they didn't remember making? Was the woman at the bus stop really oblivious to the person seated next to her, immersed in the daily paper, or were the two apparent strangers engaged in covert client/guide conversation? Was Emma's last case an example of what happened when magical aid was declined? What would've happened if, instead of signing that contract, Emma had turned Killian away?

The possibilities were overwhelming, if she was being honest. As was this new way of looking at the world. Of knowing her world was one of many. How many forces, helpful and harmful and all shades in between, were at work in a land that was supposed to be devoid of all such entities?

While these things left her uneasy, she was comforted by the idea of alternate versions of people. Of a Killian Jones who'd never suffered loss. An Emma Swan who didn't put up walls. That there could be versions of them who were in the midst of a first meeting, neither having any clue how much they'd come to mean to each other. Maybe there was an Emma somewhere who didn't push the people in her life past the point where they were willing to fight for her. One who'd grown up with parents, grown up loved. Maybe another who'd chosen to raise her son instead of—

_Don't be ridiculous, Emma._

If she took this theory to Killian, he'd probably spout some outlandish hypothesis of his own about how parallel universes not only existed but were of an inestimable number that corresponded with the divergent paths forged by every decision a person made.

"The tattoo."

Propped up on one arm, Killian's body acted as a barricade between Emma and a script she'd already seen. Even though it wasn't the sole of its kind, nor the only to pique Emma's curiosity—she could guess what purpose the lines and digits on the inside of his wrist had served, even if she wasn't eager for confirmation—Killian seemed to know her question pertained to the swirled lettering she'd gotten a peek at under the florescent light of the doctor's office. Dark swirls that read: _At World's End._

"I took it from an old saying." As he spoke, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand fidgeted with the littlest finger on his left, encircling its base like they were adjusting a ring he no longer wore. "A promise to meet again, even if it's in whatever life waits beyond this one."

"You got it for your brother."

Killian nodded, and Emma was surprised by his expression—or, rather, what his expression lacked. What all previous mentions of Liam had evoked. There was no sadness in his eyes now, but strangely, something that looked a lot like hope. For all his lectures on the subject, Emma didn't think she'd ever seen him put it into practice. On the contrary, for as long as she'd known him, he'd had an air of resignation about him. Like he didn't deem himself deserving of the things he'd spent centuries giving other people.

His pillow cast aside—no doubt added to the pile that now cluttered the floor—Killian claimed a more comfortable position, settling himself on his stomach with his overlapping hands as a headrest.

"Don't tell me I wore you out already."

"Perish the thought, Swan. I've another round in me yet—two, if you do all the work."

Emma laughed. "You really know how to entice a girl."

"One of my many talents."

Fully aware that it might make him fall asleep faster, Emma reached forward to stroke Killian's hair, running her fingers slowly through its strands. Killian emitted a soft, _"mm,"_ as his eyes gave up the struggle to stay open.

Staying was another _after_ she wasn't used to. Not so much the staying as the _wanting_ to stay. If it were anyone else, Emma would've been dressed and out the door five minutes after she'd gotten what she came for. The last time she'd felt this strong a connection with someone had been—

But she didn't want to think about him now. Didn't want to think of all the ways this could go wrong. Taint the beginning with her fear of the end.

"Any plans for your newfound freedom?"

"Suppose I might pierce my ear again, commandeer a vessel, pillage and plunder my way across this new land." He smiled lazily as Emma continued her caress, biting her lip for the mental picture he'd painted.

It wasn't the first time she'd tried to envision him in all his swashbuckling glory. She'd heard the stories as a kid, same as anyone, about leather and eyeliner and—

They hadn't gone out last Halloween, given that they weren't exactly friends a week into their acquaintance, but Emma was getting some definite ideas about the next one.

It was difficult to imagine Killian as the scourge of the Seven Seas—or however many his world had. _Fearsome, lawless, cutthroat_. Especially now, as his breathing grew steadier with every move of her hand, his body relieved of all tension.

"How does it feel?" She said. "Not having magic?"

"Feels…" he paused for so long, Emma thought he'd drifted off, "…lighter."

She couldn't shake the feeling, after Killian had shared more of the specifics surrounding his termination, that it'd been a bit…easy. What about all the lines he'd been afraid to cross, the consequences of falling for a client? What happened to _forbidden_? Where was the threat if his superiors were just going to give him a clean slate? No hard feelings, have a nice life? _That's it?_

She hadn't said any of this out loud, of course—and chance planting a seed of doubt in Killian's mind? She was too well acquainted with how they were prone to grow. First they sat idle, then they nettled and stretched and carved nice, deep holes in the soil so they'd always have a place to return to.

"Killian?" Her attention moved to the scar on his cheek, her thumb finding its surface almost smooth. She didn't ask him about this one, having been too distracted by a body that looked like it'd survived a war. This mark was different. Less aggressive than the others. Emma wondered if it was a childhood injury, like the one she'd taken on her knee when forcing her way through a too-small breach in a chain link fence, truancy officers hot on her heels. "Do you think you made the right decision?"

Maybe she was reading too much into things.

If something wasn't keeping her from what she wanted, she didn't know how to trust that it was really hers. The fact that yesterday, for all she knew, Killian had been her guide, and today he wasn't…

Maybe some situations really were as straightforward as they seemed. If Killian wasn't bothered, why was she?

"Killian?" She stopped all movement and waited for any sign that he was the least bit conscious.

Maybe she didn't know how to be happy.

When his answer came in the form of no answer at all, Emma lay her head to her pillow and took a moment to admire how peaceful he was before following his lead. She supposed it was a good thing he wasn't awake to pick apart the layers of this particular question, adept as he was at seeing through her.

Her last thought was a mix of happiness and apprehension—a silent plea that became a mantra and accompanied her into a dreamless sleep.

_Don't ruin this one._

—

In Emma's experience, first dates ended one of two ways: with a desire never to see the other person again, or with a desire to see infinitely more of the other person. And then never speak again. Both scenarios had her counting the minutes until it was over. She'd never had a date she didn't want to end.

Until now.

It'd started with a new dress and a single red rose and a cab ride (just in case), and it'd evolved into an enjoyable (if slightly overcooked) meal at a lovely (if wildly overpriced) restaurant and engaging (if shamelessly flirtatious) conversation with an impossibly attractive man who had no idea just how endearing his smile could be—especially when coupled with that nervous ear scratch he was still in denial about.

_"I do not have a tic."_

_"You have_ at least _five."_

Emma had been particularly fond of its appearance following a mature, adult discussion they'd fallen into somewhere between, _"How's the chicken?", "I've had better,"_ and their second bottle of wine about which of them had developed a crush on the other first. Emma had remained tight-lipped on the subject while Killian had been more forthcoming than he meant to be, sparing few details regarding the ill will he'd harbored toward the dates he'd arranged for her.

That was when he'd known that keeping things friendly was going to be a difficult ask.

_"So all that talk about not wasting opportunities was…what?"_

_"Sage advice. It's never wise to put things off." His face gave nothing away, but Emma caught the way his hand twitched at the table's edge, like it'd only now noticed how loose the wine had made his tongue._

_"So why didn't you say anything?"_

_"My job was to guide you toward a happy ending—if one of your prospects turned out to be the proverbial 'one,' who was I to stand in the way of True Love?" The indifference he'd aimed for didn't quite land, his tone compromised by something more serious, much more invested._

_The lighthearted mood quickly declined as they stared across the table at each other. Emma wanted to reassure him with the truth that there was never a reason to be jealous, but she figured that, in this instance, actions might speak louder than words. And it wasn't long until they were asking for the check and hailing a cab and groping each other in the backseat. Her dress was half off before they stumbled over the threshold to his apartment, Killian's state of dishevelment equal to her own by the time they toppled in a blur of tangled limbs onto the couch._

_"Not bad for an old man."_

_"You're never going to get over that, are you?"_

_"Nope."_

_"I've retained my youthful glow quite well, I think."_

_Emma laughed, more breath than discernible sound. "Yeah, you're positively radiant."_

She found him sitting at the foot of the bed, focused intently on the phone in his hand. He didn't look up until she stood directly in front of him, applying a towel to the dripping ends of her hair.

"I thought it was mine," he said, handing the device to her. "You have an appointment tomorrow. Nine a.m."

"Thanks." Emma sat down next to him, mindful of his personal space.

He'd put aside his disappointment all through dinner, and in the short hours they'd been back at his place, but now that the night was winding down, traces of it were starting to resurface.

"Feel like talking about it?"

For a second, he looked like he was about to brush her off, say there as nothing to talk about, he was fine—he was as bad as Emma sometimes. "Let's just say three hundred years of granting wishes doesn't qualify a person for much else."

She'd woken up that morning feeling like things were finally, amazingly, normal. As much as they'd been since—well, their first kiss, if she had to pinpoint when, exactly, everything had gone to hell. After what'd happened the night before, Emma had been afraid that the day might cast everything in a monstrous light. That it might chase away all the progress they'd made. Rebuild a few of the walls they'd broken down. But the world had been a bit brighter in the aftermath of so much change.

_Killian was the first to wake, pulling the covers as he turned over. Emma pretended this didn't disturb her, but she had a feeling her ruse was ineffectual. She wondered, when the mattress stilled and the room grew quiet again, if he was watching her. Could he tell that hers was not the deep, steady breathing of someone well into a REM cycle?_

_Emma felt his lips against her cheek, the warmth of his breath against her neck when he whispered, "You aren't a very good liar, you know."_

It'd come as a surprise when a short while later, after the exchange of pleasantries— _hi, good morning, how'd you sleep?_ During which neither of them seemed capable of remembering how not to smile—he'd told her about his plans for acclimating himself to this world. Starting with the search for a new job.

_"Seriously?"_

_Killian hid his gaze in the sheets, as though searching their sunlit ridges for the good humor he'd had a minute ago. "I wouldn't say I'm destitute just yet, but I would very much like to avoid becoming so."_

"The lack of an identity doesn't help matters."

"They didn't give you any kind of background to start over with?"

Killian shook his head. "As far as this world is concerned, Killian Jones doesn't exist."

As if by reflex, Emma ran a mental check of all the forgers she'd come in contact with during her less reputable years, but ultimately thought better of the impulse. She was a law abiding—a law _enforcing_ —citizen now. Engaging in criminal activity wasn't the best way to land her boyfriend a job.

Her stomach did a nervous flip and she wondered if Killian noticed how fast her eyes flitted to his. They hadn't discussed what they were—it hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours since it'd happened—but there weren't many places to go from _you're my happy ending_ , and _I gave up eternity to be with you_.

Still, giving it a title made it…real.

_"What time do you have to leave?"_

_Killian consulted the clock above the stove and said, "Soon." He set his dishes on the counter and turned Emma toward him with a hand on each hip. "You're not upset..?"_

_"Are you kidding?" Emma reached around him to the bacon he'd left behind and popped a piece into her mouth. Nothing against his usual jacket and jeans, but she'd grown rather fond of the dress slacks and tie in the last twenty minutes. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back, he looked like he was late for a board meeting. "More food for me."_

_When Killian didn't smile and instead looked at Emma in a way that made her think the other shoe was about to drop, she swallowed thickly, the bacon going down like molasses._

_"I would like to take you out this evening, if you're free."_

_Trying not to appear too obviously calmed, Emma leaned into his grasp. "You know, the date usually comes_ before _sex."_

_"Convention is overrated." On bare feet, Emma had to stand nearly on tiptoes to kiss him. Killian made a sound like a low growl as one hand moved to the small of her back, the other skimming the edge of the sweats she'd stolen from his drawer. "Why the blazes did you let me fall asleep last night?"_

_"I'm not sure I could've stopped you."_

_If she didn't know how important this interview was for him, that it wasn't just about reconciling himself with a new environment and coming to terms with the permanence of his stay, but a first step toward true independence, Emma might've asked him to cancel. It wasn't that she didn't want good things for him, more that the idea of locking themselves inside and not coming up for air until they'd compensated for the time they'd lost to yearning looks and tortured gazes and adherence to rules that weren't worth the paper they were printed on was immensely tempting._

_Something closed in on her then, something she'd been expecting. Maybe it'd never really left, just sat idle, biding its time until the moment it could do the most damage. Something that told her braving so much new territory in so short a time was dangerous. That she and Killian had gone from acquaintances to friends to some weird combination of the two who didn't speak of the thing they both wanted to speak of, both wanted to repeat, to…whatever this turned out to be. That she'd known Killian a handful of months and she was ready to act against everything her past relationships had taught her._

_Any argument Emma made about being sure this time was met with a reminder: she'd been sure before._

_"Are you okay, Love?"_

_"Fine." She put on a smile and shoved every negative thought to the back of her mind, every uncertainty, even as they conspired against her, answering questions she hadn't asked about what happened to those who couldn't remember the past. "Pick me up at six."_

"If worse comes to worst, you can always be my assistant. I can boss you around, send you on frivolous errands, it'll be fun."

Killian arched his brow. "And if I step out of line? I'm assuming there'll be some sort of disciplinary action…"

"Perv."

Killian smiled as he tapped a curved finger under her chin, his thumb seeming exceptionally fond of the dimple it found there. Drawing forward, he gave her a quick peck and then lingered, as though preparing to move in for another. "I'm not quite desperate enough as to impose upon your selfless nature."

Emma held up one hand, parallel with the ground. "Beggars," she raised it high, "choosers," and then low, "you."

"Is this your idea of a motivational speech?"

"That depends. Do you feel motivated?"

"Not in the way you were intending, I'm sure."

Emma's smile was short-lived when Killian's failed to follow.

"Can I ask you something?"

She said, "You can ask me anything," but felt her confidence waver with every second he took to do so.

Dropping his gaze to the phone in her lap, Killian said, "Where was that photograph taken?"

All Emma could do was gape at him. Why would he ask about what should've looked to him like a random skyline? She knew the answer, even if she was loath to accept it. She could ignore it, pretend it wasn't true, but it remained a constant, unavoidable fact that her feelings for Killian couldn't erase. He'd gotten a view into her past, and she had no idea how much he'd seen.

Before she could form a response, he confirmed her suspicions.

"I saw it," he said, staring into the near distance like he was reliving a memory that didn't belong to him.

How could he have known about those two years but not the eleven months that'd preceded them? He hadn't known about her kid until she told him—did that mean he didn't know about Neal?

"It was no more than a flash, but I assumed it to be of some importance, having been included with the rest."

Emma didn't think she was ready to know what _the rest_ was.

When Killian's eyes moved back to hers, she was tempted by all manner of excuses. It was late and she had an early day. Neither of them had really slept much last night. She needed to go across the hall to dry her hair—the water droplets escaping under her shirt only feeding her flight response.

In some small way, she realized, she'd come to count on Killian having arrived already equipped with certain knowledge. Made it so much easier not needing to rehash everything that'd ever gone wrong. Him knowing meant Emma didn't have to say it. But him asking meant he didn't know.

In some regards, they'd been two of the most discouraging years in recent memory. She'd come out simultaneously stronger and a little worse for wear, until she was some strange hybrid—equal parts broken and resolute. Sometimes she felt like she was made of a substance stronger than steel, like nothing could get through the barriers she'd built. Sometimes she felt like she was so fragile that one more upset would splinter her and she'd be scattered to the wind. Sometimes her heart got so heavy she wished she could set it down and forget it for a few hours, a few days.

Like so many things in her life, that picture had been an end. It became a warning she carried with her wherever she went. A promise never to look back. She'd taken it her last night in Florida with the first phone she'd been able to afford on her own. It accompanied her through every sleepless night that she stared at every upgraded screen, feeling incomplete for the closure she'd never gotten, never wanted until now. And as the image grew more and more outdated, each new pixelated edge felt like a step in the right direction.

Emma looked over at Killian and knew her doubts were wrong this time. Suddenly she was confiding things she'd never told anyone. Things no one really cared to know. The uncomfortable things. The sort of accounts that made people avert their eyes and move around in their seats. No one wanted to hear about an eighteen year old girl giving birth handcuffed to a hospital bed. They didn't want to know about the man who'd left her there, alone. But Killian listened with all the patience she'd come to expect from him, even if a few of the particulars tested its limits, his clenched jaw and measured breaths further indication that she didn't have to worry about history repeating itself.

When she was done, Killian reached for her hand. "I'm in this, Emma. You know that, don't you?"

Emma was rendered speechless by the sincerity in his eyes, and by a thought that she shouldn't have been thinking. It was too soon, wasn't it? They'd only just gotten together—the word _boyfriend_ still gave her pause. But it was there, the thought of it. Still a little unsure of itself, but taking root.

Emma decided to hold onto it for now.

She laced her fingers with his and said, "I know."

—

**_Two weeks Ago_ **

The last thing Emma wanted to deal with right now was a stalker.

Twice, she'd told herself to stop being paranoid—she wasn't the only one who took that route to work. Three times, she'd written it off as happenstance—with the number of times she stopped for coffee in the average week, she was bound to run into the occasional fellow regular. When he showed up at the corner market at midnight on a Wednesday, passing her in the aisles with the same empty basket on his arm, she knew things weren't as coincidental as he'd have her believe.

And she was in no mood.

In honor of her and Killian's first official month together, and with it falling on a night they would've gone out anyway, Emma had planned what she hoped would be the perfect evening. And when the first obstacle came in the form of a text from Killian letting her know he'd be later than he'd anticipated, she quickly adapted, setting to work organizing a quiet date in. Never having had the chance to celebrate the small achievements other couples gushed over, Emma didn't want to let her excitement get the best of her. _It's only a month_ , she told herself. _Hardly a blip in the grand scheme of things_. But it was a big deal to her. She was proud of them for making it this far—after all, it was one thing to make sweeping declarations, quite another to brave the day-to-day hazards of a committed relationship. They'd top the evening off with a bottle of wine Emma had saved for a special occasion—never mind that when she'd bought it, the sort of special occasion she'd had in mind was of the career advancement persuasion—and she'd casually drop it into conversation that oh, hey, was it the thirteenth already? If it _happened_ to end the way most anniversaries did, then so be it.

Her shadow, who now stood behind her in the checkout line, pulled one item from his basket to place on the conveyor belt. Emma watched the battered box of gummy snacks trail after the plastic divider that separated it from her purchases. She tried not to take its crushed corners and dented middle as confirmation that a sinister plot was stirring, but it looked so much like a clumsily snatched excuse to follow her to the register. When Emma looked to the man, himself, he gave her a stiff grin and chased it with a wink. Something about the encounter, aside from seriously creeping her out, left a fleeting impression of déjà vu. The unpleasant sort of intuition that told her she'd had this nightmare before.

She paid, grabbed her bag, and headed for the exit as fast as she could short of running. Once outside, she glanced back as subtly as possible and saw the man pat his every pocket in the vaguely irritated manner of someone who was a frequent forgetter of his wallet. Emma took this as her cue to get the hell out of Dodge.

For a split-second, she flirted with the idea of confronting him, but between the eerie calm that'd descended upon that part of the city and the lightning flashing rapid fire, subjecting the streets to its strobe-like effect, that course of action felt too much like something that belonged in a made-for-TV movie. Accosting strange men in dark places was exactly the kind of thing that got people killed off before the opening credits.

Heavy footfalls advanced, nearing the corner where Emma awaited deliverance from a stick figure she was beginning to think had it in for her. She held her breath as she listened, running through evasive strategies in her head—there was a glass jar in her bag that might do some damage if she aimed for the right body part. Dinner would be ruined, but considering the alternative, it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

When the sound stopped suddenly, Emma felt her heart almost do the same. She tightened her grip on the bag, braced to strike. But when she looked behind her, no one was there. She turned a complete one-eighty, checked every angle, and nothing.

It may not have been a person of flesh and blood, but something followed her into her building. It waited with her in the elevator, accompanied her down the hall to her apartment, and had yet to leave as she locked the door, set her groceries in the kitchen, double-checked the deadbolt, and made sure she had a firearm in plain sight while she prepped ingredients for a meal she no longer had an appetite for.

—

As of Killian's last text, he was trying to find a delicate way to wrap things up with his friend. That was twenty minutes ago. With every minute that ticked by and turned into ten, Emma had to remind herself that she wasn't dating Carter or Brennan or Neal or some other asshole who was just going to drop her the instant something shiny caught his eye. But learning who said _friend_ was had rekindled a curiosity that'd never been quenched.

_"Perhaps_ friend  _is a strong word. She was more of a protégé."_

_"She? Should I be worried?"_

_"Yes. About a great many things." Killian gave Emma that reproachful look but spared them both another warning about how her bad luck was a problem she needed to start thinking seriously about solving. "But Charlotte isn't one of them." He kissed her forehead. "I won't be long."_

_"Reservation's at eight."_

The closer it got to one in the morning, the more Emma came to understand the paranoia that cropped up whenever she left their building by herself. Most days she acted like she didn't notice Killian watching her get ready for work out of the corner of his eye, or the frown he wore as the clock counted down their morning. The way he'd hold her hand a little tighter when they went out together as he kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, steeling himself against whatever shape misfortune would take.

Emma figured she'd reached her quota of disasters for the night, until she tried to turn on the stove. She heard the _click, click, click_  as she turned the knob that told her the jarful of sauce would have to wait in its cold pan a little longer. When she tried again to no avail, she moved to the adjacent burner. The same series of _click_ s was followed by a modest flame, which Emma would've taken as a larger victory had she not received a jolt that made her jump, her hand recoiling from the spark that'd shot out from the knob. Such was the arc of her reflex that she hit the pan's handle and sent it crashing to the floor with the force of a projectile. One that splattered marinara across every surface in Emma's kitchen—including her.

"Son of a bitch."

She threw out a few more choice words as she stomped to the bathroom, pulling off her shirt as she went. This being one of countless food-related accidents that'd occurred that week, Emma was well-equipped to treat the garment before the sauce could set, having kept a bottle of stain remover under the sink. Next to go were her boots, which only required the attention of a damp wash cloth.

She unfastened her jeans, but before she could wriggle free, she heard the front door open and close, and Killian's voice calling, "Swan?"

"In here." Emma didn't stop to consider that there might be anything startling about her appearance until Killian arrived at the doorway, his eyes wide, mouth agape. "Hey, I—"

He didn't wait for an explanation. He conquered the separating space in a single stride and reached for her arms, inspecting them in turn, running his hands over the spotted skin without a care for his own. Emma's face was next—Killian's eyes roved every inch in search of the source.

"I spilled spaghetti sauce," Emma said, feeling with every second under his scrutiny like a child who'd been caught sneaking food after lights out. When he finally looked at her, really and truly at _her_ , it was with an expression that was at once relieved and uneasy. "Killian, are you okay?"

He cleared his throat and took a measured step back. "Fine—I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Just…tired, is all." The integrity of his smile was severely compromised by an air of disquiet that had yet to clear. He looked the way Emma had felt when returning from the store. "Did you say you spilled something?"

Emma nodded, not taking her eyes off of him as he turned to the cabinet where she kept the towels that were frayed with age, grabbed one as though he were in a trance, and walked away.

—

Killian looked over when Emma's arm bumped his, grinning like he'd discovered a long-buried secret.

"What?"

"Nothing." He went back to stirring the sauce he'd made using a combination of ingredients from both their kitchens while Emma manned the pasta and sides. "I'm impressed."

"Just because I _don't_ cook doesn't mean I _can't_." His smirk told her he'd keep this information in mind the next time one of them was hungry. "And spaghetti isn't exactly rocket science."

He hadn't fully relaxed, even once the mess was cleaned, for a solid half hour after he found Emma in what she now understood to be a worrying state—Killian no doubt seeing red and registering injury. Once he'd had something to occupy his hands, his mood had softened exponentially, lightening in increments over a steady course of chopped vegetables and ground spices.

Killian switched off his burner and Emma, hers, and they followed the easy rhythm of people accustomed to sharing meals. Killian grabbed the plates and Emma loaded them with liberal helpings. Emma supplied the frosted mugs, Killian the six-pack he'd picked up from his place on the way over—she'd decided to save the wine for a night that wasn't a complete train wreck. And the two of them toasted the end of a long day.

"So, how bad was it?"

"Not bad. More…discouraging." Killian set his beer on the counter by his plate, neither he nor Emma in a hurry to sit down, both being used to consuming food standing up, as one of them was usually running late. Of course, it could've been that they didn't entirely trust the stability of Emma's new dining table. Which they'd spent the better part of two days assembling. They'd adhered to every instructional diagram with the utmost care and had still come away with far too many spare parts for comfort. "I'm walking in to these meetings with nothing but my good looks to recommend me."

"I've been there—no experience, no degree, no chance in hell I'm getting past the lobby."

"So you're saying I should sleep with the boss."

Emma shrugged. "At this point, it could only help."

"I didn't think you were one to share, Swan."

"Desperate times, my friend—if you think I'm going to support you for the next three hundred years, you've got another thing coming."

Killian laughed—an immensely calming sound given his previous attitude.

If that was how he reacted to a little spill, Emma didn't want to know how he'd take it if she told him she thought some guy had been following her for the past few weeks. She'd clue him in eventually, but not tonight. Not after the look in his eyes when he'd assumed the universe had finally gotten its claws into her. She'd wait for things to settle down. For all she knew, paranoia was catching and she'd let Killian's overactive imagination rub off on her. Chances were she was seeing stalkers where there were only slightly off-putting men who kept the same hours she did.

"So, how'd things go with Charlotte?"

"They went well."

"Everything okay?"

"Aye. I've been replaced as her immediate superior. She's having some difficulty making the adjustment."

"Oh." Emma twisted her fork until it was hugged by a hill of noodles. "Is she in town on…business?" She looked at Killian when he didn't answer. Apparently she'd revealed another secret because he had that same amused smile.

"What is it you're trying to ask me, Swan? If I've got designs on another woman?"

Emma rolled her eyes, even if she did take the tiniest twinge of pleasure from his tone. "You've met all my zero friends, can't I at least ask about your one?"

He stayed staring a moment longer, clearly enjoying the idea of her being jealous.

So she may have, at one time, entertained the errant hostile thought directed at a name on his phone. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing.

"Fair enough."

Charlotte was a young recruit—the youngest Killian had ever trained. He described her as bright, eager to learn, and quick-witted, with one fatal flaw.

"You should try reading a few of those stories you tell," said Emma. "You'd know that all heroes have them."

"How do you know she's a hero? You haven't met her."

"I'm just saying flaws aren't always a bad thing." Killian paused, like he had a bit of commentary to add, but then he went back to eating, leaving Emma to ask, "So what's Charlotte's?"

"I've never seen so clever a person be more easily distracted—she's got one of the worst track records I've come across. At first I blamed her inexperience, then I thought her age might be a hindrance, but now…"

Emma straightened up, her interest piqued by his furrowed brow. "What?"

Killian shook his head. "I'm sure it's nothing." He stabbed at his plate, still distracted. "She's actually the one who discovered…" He let his words trail off, appearing to think better of what he'd been about to say.

"Are you gonna talk in half sentences all night?"

Killian smirked, his fork still searching for purpose among the peaks and valleys of perfectly cooked pasta—if Emma did say so herself. "Perhaps."

She had a feeling she knew what he'd held back. What Charlotte had discovered. But did the lack of something really count as a discovery? Were non-existent towns really _found_?

It was one of the things they didn't talk about. Killian still very much believed there was a dark curse holding people hostage and Emma still very much knew there wasn't.

"So what did she want?"

"She's left family behind in her other life. A sister with whom she was especially close."

"What does that have to do with you?"

"She wanted to know how I _beat the system_ , as it were."

Another thing they didn't talk about: the ease with which Killian had been let off the hook. Even though Emma couldn't quite voice what, exactly, didn't sit right, she got the impression Killian could sense that something was off. The way she could sense that there was something else, something big, he wasn't telling her. The way she knew he would, in his own time.

Sometimes she'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel across the bed for him, always finding him within arm's reach. Sometimes she dreamed of a day when her search returned only cold sheets. A day she woke in a panic to find him gone. Vanished as soundly as the man from the market, not a trace left behind. Sometimes it felt more like a memory than any dream had the right to.

Sometimes she couldn't sleep for thinking about it. Couldn't breathe.

"Something on your mind, Love?"

If she didn't know better, she'd think his eyes could see into her deepest parts, read her every thought plain as day. Emma blinked a few times, just to be safe.

While they were on the topic of avoidance, there was something she'd been meaning to tell him. Something that'd taken root a little too soon and grown a little too fast. Something that chose the most inconvenient times to manifest itself, and took strength from the oddest things. Like the way Killian sometimes stood with his hand on his belt, head cocked to one side as a grin tugged at his lips, or the way his hair still looked (unfairly) perfect when it was a sleep-ravaged wreck, sticking up at every angle with a cowlick across the back. Like the way he still held the door for her when they went out, or how, depending on the light, his eyes changed from blue to green or gray.

The way he looked at her now, like he knew the words that wouldn't come.

Or the fleeting way his face fell when Emma put others in their place. "Today—well, yesterday—is one month that we've been…us."

She didn't know what she expected—for him to laugh, say something about all the strange holidays celebrated in this world and how he'd never keep them straight? She didn't expect him to smile so brightly. Emma smiled back, grateful he hadn't seen through her defenses, after all. At the same time, almost wishing he had.

"Milestone like this," he said, "deserves commemorating."

"What'd you have in mind?"

—

It wasn't a complete wasteland. The grass was overgrown in areas and weeds sprouted up around rides. The booths had seen better days, their walls reduced to tatters by months of wind and rain. Not at all like the pictures Emma had seen of haunted places, as it was still in the earliest stages of abandonment, but she could see a future that further neglect would wreak.

Light from the city reflected off the clouds, making them look like the stuffing inside a blanket, but it was still a dim setting, considering. Nightmarish to the right person, she imagined. But on its own, darkness had never been Emma's greatest fear.

A quiet _buzz_ and a not-so-quite curse sounded from behind a nearby control panel, Killian's attempts at rewiring the box into compliance not yielding any success.

"Need help?"

She took his grumbling as a _no_. Or, rather, _not yet_. Once he reached the peak of his frustration, he'd sigh heavily to himself—Emma had been explicitly informed that Killian Jones did hot "huff"—and tell her to have at it. _"I know you're dying to show me up."_ Emma would smile sweetly like ulterior motives were beneath her and then she would demonstrate the skills by which she'd survived so long on her own, while Killian failed at pretending he wasn't impressed.

When that moment came, Killian emerged with a scowl and an aim to avoid Emma's eye at all cost. He ran his hand through his hair and looked as though he wanted to murder an inanimate object. Going in for one final attack, he gripped the box by both sides and shook it.

"Yeah, that trick always works."

"Blasted thing's lucky I don't still have magic. If I did—" He hit one side with the flat of his hand. Once, twice—

The night—still marked by an unnatural calm—was suddenly filled with the longstanding anthem of carnivals everywhere. Slowed and distorted, the melody reminded Emma of something that might come from a waterlogged music box. The carousel, at last come to life, cast spots of light about an otherwise dreary backdrop.

"Who needs magic when you've got brute force?"

Killian stared down at the control panel, with its colorful buttons and levers, like the thing had played a trick on him. For someone who'd spent several lifetimes going against the logical and ordinary and easily explained, he didn't take kindly to things that didn't work the way they were supposed to.

When he looked at Emma, it was with a smile that was slightly…somewhere else. Like his thoughts were moving too fast for his features to keep up. "Vastly overrated, I've always said." The expression turned genuine when he held out his hand to her and asked, "May I have the honor?"

Emma eyed his upturned palm with feigned aversion before accepting his offer. "Is that a joke?"

"I'm being perfectly serious."

"I don't dance."

"I can teach you." His other hand helped itself around Emma's waist, and she leaned into him, already feeling her body start to sway.

"Hope you're a better teacher than the last guy. Scared off by a few sprinkles."

"I seem to recall something of a deluge driving us apart. Nearly caught my death, in fact."

"How could I forget?"

The lights from the carousel streaked across Killian's skin. He closed what little gap there was between them so that their bodies were flush, and this time, when he hummed along with the music, Emma laughed, aware of how odd they must've looked trying to step in time to such a ridiculous tune.

"So why did you bring me here? No radio at your place?"

"I brought you here because, despite how it ended, the night you and I last spent on these grounds was the happiest I'd been since…" Killian paused but his feet never faltered. "Well, in a long time. That was the night I realized how difficult it would've been to say goodbye to you."

The term _grinning like an idiot_ crossed Emma's mind when she smiled. "Guess you kinda liked me, huh?"

"I guess I did."

Killian's lips had barely grazed hers when she pulled back, finally ready to answer the question she'd dodged the night of their first date. "Do you know why I got so mad?"

"You thought I'd performed magic on you."

"That was only part of it. It felt like a date, didn't it? You and me? Like the one I should've been on to begin with?"

Killian gave a noncommittal nod, like he was reluctant to agree to anything until he knew where she was going with this. "I suppose..."

"That was when I knew you were never just going to be my guide." The term _grinning like an idiot_ stole once more across her thoughts, this time with Killian as its unsuspecting victim. "And when you said you'd used magic, I thought…I guess I thought my feelings couldn't be trusted. Or you couldn't…or…"

Emma wasn't sure what she was trying to say. She'd been sure of it at the start, but now she felt like she was stumbling over something that should've been simple. Small, like a pebble in the grass. And now she was tumbling, face first toward the earth.

For the second time in as many hours, words failed her. More accurately, the _right_ words failed her. And maybe that was for the best. In her experience, some things were better left unsaid. She contented herself with a kiss that should've followed their first dance, and with holding Killian close. With all the little things once out of reach.

The carousel stopped spinning, its song at an end, but Killian continued to lead their steps, humming a new melody that sounded a lot like the one Emma listened to when her bad day was one for the record books. Coming from Killian, it was doubly soothing. Or maybe it was learning they had something else in common, something she never would've suspected.

"Mm," Killian spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "Is that a new fragrance you're wearing? You smell good enough to eat."

Emma shoved him back but couldn't help laughing. "If you didn't rush me out of there, I could've showered."

He sauntered toward her in that unhurried fashion, knowing she wouldn't resist his advances, no matter her insistence that she was profoundly offended. "I wasn't complaining—I happen to find the scent of Italian cuisine quite alluring."

"You're an ass."

"One of my best qualities, I'm told."

Emma's gaze landed on an object not far from where they stood, partially obscured by shadow but clearly collapsed. Seeing the shell of a photo booth, identical to the one she and Killian had entered months ago, Emma reached into her back pocket for her phone. She moved into position beside Killian so that the now stationary lights hit her, too.

She told him to smile and he didn't hesitate. But no sooner had she tapped the button on the screen than Killian turned and kissed her cheek.

After following the appropriate prompts, Emma stared down at the newly changed background. Killian watched her but didn't say anything. He couldn't know that, as of that moment, she'd already started thinking about their two month mark. About how she could rent a boat and surprise him with a day on the harbor—it would have to be warmer by then, wouldn't it? They could both do with a break from the city and all its stressors. And she could finally see him in his element.

He couldn't know that making plans for the future was something she hadn't done since she was seventeen, seated in the passenger seat of her car, building a life from a dot on a map.

"Where to now, Love?"

Still looking at the picture of them, still smiling to herself, Emma didn't care where she went, as long as she was with him. She knew instinctively, the way she'd known too many things, too deeply, too soon, that what she'd been searching for all this time wasn't a place.

"Home."

—

**_One Week Ago_ **

She saw him again the day she picked her car up from the shop. She'd gotten there early—another hour, they'd said—so she went for a sandwich at a café close by. There were a few skills Emma once thought she'd never learn that were now second nature. Tricks to finding people who didn't want to be found. Things that, when she first heard them, sounded like they came from a bad spy novel. But as her eye caught a reflection in the glass case behind the register, she was glad she hadn't written them off.

He maintained a healthy distance as he waited in line behind her, but Emma's skin started to crawl just the same. He brought a scent with him, like burned rubber, that could've come from outside, could've come from his job, or any number of places. But it compounded the claustrophobic feeling that'd seized her. His long, dark trench coat was surely an answer to the non-stop rain currently assaulting the eastern seaboard. But it gave Emma flashbacks to slasher films where the killer was never found.

She didn't stay. Didn't take her order to a table by the window and watch the world go by in a haze of popped collars and wind-torn umbrellas. She tugged the zipper on her puffy coat as high as it would go, tucked her hair into the hood, and joined the disorder.

It wasn't until she turned the corner en route to the garage that rage took the place alarm had occupied in her thoughts, and she was annoyed that it'd taken its sweet time getting there. That she'd spent the weeks being rattled, when the truth was someone only had the upper hand if she let them. She was done with this guy showing up at all her haunts, outside her building. She wasn't some scared kid anymore, unable to defend herself.

She hid herself from any vantage point the cafe could provide and waited for him to pass by.

He didn't take the bait.

Emma peeked around the building. The coast was clear. Either he'd gotten spooked, or…

He hadn't been following her.

If the former, this was going to make it harder to justify not telling Killian. One more item on a rapidly growing list of things she had yet to disclose. Among them, the real reason her car was being repaired.

It was the textbook definition of a _minor_ accident. But Emma was beginning to think that word wasn't in Killian's vocabulary. Or if it was, it didn't apply to them. Nothing was insignificant. Everything was a sign. All signs were further proof that Emma was being self-destructively obstinate. The sky was literally falling. And he'd appreciate it if she heeded his educated advice while there was still a chance they'd make it out with their lives.

And he thought _she_ was dramatic.

She was just outside the garage when her phone rang. Speak of the devil.

"Hey."

"Where are you?"

Emma stared up at the black and white typeface and a stern set of blue eyes seemed to stare back. "I was just about to head home. Is the interview over already?"

"In a manner of speaking. I need to ask you a favor."

—

She hadn't said a word since they left the train station. Hadn't actually said much _at_ the train station after, _"Are you Emma Swan?"_ She'd plopped down in the passenger seat and clutched her backpack to her chest, not bothering to buckle herself until Emma asked her to.

Her short hair was a muted shade of blue, several tattoos snaked their way up her neck, stopping just shy of her jawline, one peeked from under the sleeve on her right hand, and her left ear had twice as many piercings as its opposite.

"So. Charlotte." Emma looked over at her, receiving no response. Charlotte continued to stare out the rain-spotted window. "Killian's told me a lot about you."

Except for a few brief mentions on the night of their first month milestone, Killian had told Emma exactly zero things about Charlotte. But it was something people said, wasn't it? To put the other person at ease?

Seeing how young she was, Emma almost felt embarrassed for ever thinking her a threat. She was just a kid. A troubled one, if the look in her eyes was any indication. Of course, having been a "troubled teen," herself, Emma had no love for the term, as it seemed to exist for the sole purpose of pigeonholing people. She was more than the street urchin others assumed her to be. She wasn't about to form an opinion about Charlotte based on one bad mood.

Once it'd been safe, Killian had been more open about his previous occupation, and at first Emma had been grateful that he was able to get out when he did. But looking at Charlotte and knowing the place she'd return to after this visit, Emma felt a sharp pang of guilt at not being able to help her.

"I doubt that."

"He told me you're his friend."

"He lied." Charlotte hugged her backpack more tightly as she sank lower in her seat. "I doubt he even likes me. Just feels sorry for me."

"You should give the guy some credit." Emma tried for a kind smile, knowing how easily sympathy could be misconstrued as pity. "Killian's never been shy about letting someone know he doesn't like them. If he's worked this hard to stay in touch with you, there's a reason."

Charlotte's eyes moved slowly in Emma's direction but didn't make it the full way before turning back to the window.

—

Charlotte was out of the car before it came to a complete stop. By the time Emma parked, she'd already disappeared inside the place Killian had designated to meet.

_"The Liar's Den." Emma could barely tell Killian's from the clamor of voices coming over the line. "I believe the lads called it a 'dive bar.'"_

_Scoff_ didn't quite encapsulate the sound that'd come out of her. The Liar's Den? Really? Did the universe have no subtlety left?

The building had a rundown and grimy exterior and the sign with its name swung loose on its hinges, half its letters worn away until it read: **_Th Lr's en_**.

Just as she reached the door, it flew open and Charlotte took off down the sidewalk, her bag held in front of her like a shield. Killian followed soon after, narrowly avoiding a collision with Emma. He collected himself and looked at her with a deliberately carefree smile.

"Charlotte was just here," said Emma. "I brought her, but—"

"It's all right, Swan. She's needed elsewhere. There was a limited window in which she could speak with me, hence the need for your assistance—thank you, by the way." He kissed Emma lightly on the cheek, as though nothing about this situation was amiss.

"Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine." He glanced in the direction of Charlotte's retreating form. "Just a personal matter—tad sensitive." Emma's lie detector begged to differ—something about his demeanor was trying too hard for nonchalance. He was hiding something. But, her conscience reminded her, so was she. "I don't know about you, but I'm bloody famished. Shall we grab a bite?"

—

**_Four Days Ago_ **

It was so quiet in Killian's apartment that every page turn was like punctuation. A clock counting down the minutes with acute precision. For once, neither of them was rushing toward their next appointment or slogging through the evening hours, their only incentive: the promise of a comfy bed and a warm body to curl up next to as the phrase _fall asleep_ took on new meaning. For once, neither of them was exhausted.

Emma checked the time on her phone. Delivery guy had approximately twenty minutes left on his thirty-minute guarantee, which meant that they'd been sitting there for five. And Emma had read exactly two sentences. Or had she? Maybe she'd revisited the book so many times, they'd been etched into her memory. She couldn't tell if Killian was making more headway than she was, or if he was merely enjoying the silence. For all she knew, he was riveted.

She should've gone to her place while it was still an option. If she left now, it would translate as an offensive action. She just wanted to go where the quiet wasn't so loud. So laced with frustration. Where it wasn't wasted on internal grumbling about who was right and who needed to accept the fact that there were some arguments he wasn't going to win.

They'd had their share of petty quarrels in the past, and their not-so-petty ones. Misunderstandings that could've been resolved sooner if they both weren't so stubborn. But their first real fight as a couple had come the day after they'd celebrated one month together, like their happy bubble had an expiration date. Emma didn't know why she was surprised anymore—if wishes expired, maybe everything did.

The same disagreement had repeated itself with maddening frequency in the days since, and even when it seemed they were about to have a break, they'd find themselves at each other's throats over something as inconsequential as who left the light on in the living room or who forgot to lock the front door.

That afternoon, they'd gotten lost on their way to lunch—what was meant to be part of a relaxing daytrip—because Killian had copied the directions wrong.

_"This wasn't my idea," he said when neither of their phones seemed willing to remedy the situation._

_Wasn't it bad enough that things like this happened every time they went out, without Killian rubbing it in that he'd seen it coming? If she wanted vague predictions about the future, she'd date a Magic 8 Ball._

_"So you sabotaged us?"_

_"Yes, that's precisely what I've done." Emma didn't look over, but his eye roll was practically audible. "Because I'm_ that _passive aggressive."_

_"Can you just answer the question?"_

_Killian bit his tongue—with some difficulty given his clenched jaw and the speed at which his fingers drummed against his thigh._

_"Why'd you come if you were just gonna sulk the whole time?"_

_"I'm beginning to wonder."_

A deep sound disrupted the quiet and Emma looked over to see Killian flip another page. When her staring went unnoticed, she closed her book with unnecessary force.

"Was I doing it again?"

"Little bit."

"Apologies. Won't happen again."

"I'll believe that when I hear it."

Killian placed his thumb and forefinger at one corner of his mouth and mimed a straight line to the other, like he was zipping it closed, then went back to reading.

Emma told herself it was normal—the effects of spending so much time with one person. All the little quirks were bound to start grating on their nerves. Like Emma's habit of falling asleep with the TV on, or forgetting to put her used dishes in the sink. Not _next to_ the sink. Or the way she kicked her shoes off by the door. Like Killian's inability to refrain from humming the same song all the time. Not even the whole thing, just the same snippet over and over again, like it was the only part he knew. Which was probably true, given that he couldn't even remember where he'd heard it. Or the way he lined her shoes up next to his.

Like the un-ignorable feeling that the things they didn't share with each other would one day overshadow the things they did. Emma's stalker, for instance, who'd shown up outside her office the previous day, and disappeared by the time she'd hung up the receiver to her desk phone. Or Killian's secret with Charlotte, which was more serious than either of them were about to let on.

Like the way Killian's warnings were starting to feel like reprimands.

_"You need to be more careful, Emma."_

_"These aren't trifling forces, Emma."_

_"You aren't in this alone, Emma."_

That last one always stopped her fuming dead in its tracks. Made it impossible for her to be furious with him. He was just worried—but so was she.

Whenever she left for work or to run an errand, she saw every worst case scenario run like a banner across Killian's eyes. He wanted her to wish so she wouldn't be in danger anymore. He wanted to be rid of this last shred of magic, and to close the door on that part of his life. For good. He knew there could be consequences, but they couldn't be worse than what they were suffering now. And whenever Killian argued his side, Emma saw every possible way her life could be reset, reshaped to exclude him. It could all be a trap. There were too many things they didn't know. Killian swore he did, but he'd also sworn they couldn't be together and he'd sworn his employers would unleash their fury and he'd sworn he was keeping Emma safe by pushing her away.

_"And look how well that worked out."_

He'd taken to asking her on a daily basis if her new guide had made contact yet, convinced she was keeping him out of the loop. She'd been hesitant to voice her theory, for fear of adding fuel to the fire, that her choosing to be with him had nullified her contract. Killian had assured her it didn't work like that, but he'd also assured her that if he ever fell for a client, he'd be relieved of his head.

_"What will you tell them?"_

_"If they ever show up, I'll let you know."_

Sensing his stare on the side of her face, Emma looked over. "What?"

"You've been glaring into space for the past five minutes."

"I was?"

"Something wrong with your book?" He tilted his head to the side, eyeing the spine. "Harry Potter—that's the boy wizard, isn't it?"

Closing the hardcover, gently this time, Emma set it in her lap with both hands over its dust jacket, as though shielding it from Killian's gaze.

He could've seen any number of days from her past—she still dreaded knowing which ones, specifically, afraid that this _glimpse_ was the reason he sometimes seemed able to read her mind.

Had he seen the teenager huddled under the covers at night, reading by the dying beam of a flashlight she'd stolen from the tool chest in her foster father's garage? Taking comfort from a boy who'd been neglected by the ones who were meant to care for him, locked away in a cupboard under the stairs. And in the fact that he was destined for more than what life had given him, that it wasn't some prophecy that'd made him special. It was his goodness. His heart. From the beginning, and all through the darkness, it'd been love.

Everyone told Harry he looked like his dad—except for his eyes. He had his mother's eyes. Emma remembered a time when she gladly would've endured any number of years with Dursleys of her own if it would lead to her meeting just one person who could tell her about her parents, tell her if she looked like them. Did she have her mother's eyes? Her dad's chin or ears, his bullheadedness? She remembered a time when she'd resented a fictional character for the family he'd found in his friends. Even though they could never replace what he'd lost, at least he'd had _someone_. Several _someones_ , in fact.

Looking at Killian now and knowing him to be her person, she couldn't remember a time she'd been more terrified. Everything she'd _known_ in her life warned her not to get comfortable. Because knowing she was meant for someone didn't mean the fates would let her keep him.

Seeing past the veil of irritation that'd clouded their conversations all day had her feeling like the world's largest hypocrite. Holding everyone to such a high standard of honesty while lying to the man she—

She averted her eyes—there was no telling what Killian had read in them—her gaze landing on the leather bound volume in his hands. "What's with the fairytales?"

"I'm comparing this realm's version of events against what really happened." Emma didn't say anything, but she was sure her face conveyed the right amount of _you have got to be kidding_. "Don't believe me?"

"That there's a bunch of fairytale characters running around in some other dimension? I'm gonna go with _no._ "

And then there was that.

Emma had come a long way since the day they'd met. She now fully accepted that there were things beyond her comprehension that were no less real for her inability to explain them. But there were still instances where she had to call bullshit.

"Suit yourself." Killian flipped to the next page.

Emma waited for him to turn back, her lack of questions having eaten away at him. But he remained unmoved save for his eyes following each new line. "Oh, just tell me."

"What's that, Love?"

"Whatever you're itching to say—let me guess, you've met one of them."

"As a matter of fact…"

"Who?" Killian waved his hand over the open book, inviting Emma to see for herself. She leaned across the middle cushion and scoffed at the chapter title. "You met Snow White."

"Her tale is a bit more gruesome than the one outlined here—the casualties that came of her rivalry with the queen are still being counted."

"And the seven dwarves?"

"Eight, originally."

"Because that makes _much_ more sense." Killian didn't elaborate, only smirked, as unfazed as ever by Emma's skepticism. "Okay, I'll bite. What happened?"

He closed the book, set it on the coffee table, and then began to spin a story about a young girl who told a secret that wasn't her own. About a feud between a warrior princess who had not always been brave, and an evil queen who had once been kind.

Orphaned and exiled and living inside a hollowed-out tree trunk while on the run from her step-mother's vengeance, a grownup Snow White met a prince, and what started as a begrudging alliance turned, when neither was paying attention, into the sort of love that inspired authors and poets alike.

"Then she bit an apple and went to sleep and he woke her with True Love's Kiss," Emma interjected. "The end."

"The apple came later, actually," said Killian with a voice that was still in Narrator Mode. "You see, our prince was promised to another. And our heroine hadn't the time or inclination to suffer distraction, no matter how charming. So they parted ways, both of them certain they'd never see the other again, and both hoping to be proved wrong." Killian looked at Emma with a very Killian-like gleam, and grinned. "Shall I go on?"

Emma made a vague gesture that was part nod, part one-shoulder shrug. She would not admit she was in any way intrigued. But he saw through her, just as he always did. If Emma's superpower was spotting lies, Killian's was knowing when Emma was full of shit.

He went on to reveal a unique take on the fairytale that was so commonplace in her world that anyone would be hard-pressed to hear such descriptors as _lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony_ and not think _Snow White_. Included in the narrative was a strange combination of characters, such as Little Red Riding Hood and Rumplestiltskin—operating under the moniker of The Dark One.

"Seriously? If I ever become a villain, remind me to pick a better name."

"I'm afraid that's one promise I can't keep," said Killian, "as I'll be too busy trying to save you from yourself."

"Then I'll just have to bring you over to my side—make you my sidekick, dress you up in head-to-toe black leather…"

"And what will you be wearing?"

"You'll just have to use your imagination."

Killian gave her a onceover, no doubt envisioning all manner of illicit attire. "You make quite the compelling case, Swan."

As suddenly as their bantering had begun, it dissolved into the shared recollection that, aside from this brief interlude, they were still very much in a fight. It was the reason they'd chosen reading as their entertainment, and pizza as their evening meal. As date nights went, this was the first one Emma really just wanted to get over with. Put the whole day behind her. Start fresh tomorrow.

"So," she said, if only to end the awkward silence, "Snow White meets The _Dark One_." She rolled her eyes. "Then what?"

Then, apparently, she traded strands of her hair for a potion.

"The memory of the man she could never be with was too painful, so she found a way to forget."

Emma swallowed thickly, her throat gone dry. If Killian noticed, he didn't react.

Did he know something? Was that why he'd chosen this story over all the others in his book? Was he trying to tell her that whatever secret she thought she'd so ably concealed might as well have been branded across her forehead?

Her thoughts were cut short by new turns in Killian's tale. Not only was the prince really a shepherd, but he had a twin who'd been adopted by a king. And when the true prince fell, leaving his father without an heir, a bargain was struck with the second son. Take his brother's place, slay a dragon, and return to the idyllic life he'd known. Simple. Straightforward.

"But no deal is without its constraints," said Killian. "In order to secure an alliance with Midas—" Emma bit back a mocking remark, forbade her eyes from leaving a fixed point on Killian's face, "—the king agreed to a union between the pretend prince and Midas' daughter, hence—"

"The fiancée."

"Indeed. But the prince had not forgotten Snow, nor could he. He thought of her every day, and every day regretted his ties to the crown. So he sent a letter professing his love. Snow had only to go to him and he would know she felt the same. But when she arrived, it was to decline his offer. She could not run away with him because she did not love him. What the prince didn't know was that the king had gotten to Snow first, had threatened and manipulated her into deception."

"Is this where you come in?"

Killian nodded. "You see, Swan, the thing about wishes is they're not always made of a conscious decision. It isn't always a matter of closing one's eyes and asking. Sometimes it's an ache. Sometimes it's a wanting so strong there are no words can express it. Sometimes it's senseless, soundless, less than thought but more than longing. As Snow left her prince, after swearing she never loved him, that she never would, such was her anguish that she made a wish without knowing." Killian let down his cool facade and looked away. He related the rest of their encounter as he had some of the more painful portions of his history. Almost as though they'd happened to someone else. "I met her in the forest outside the king's castle. She'd taken a moment from her companions to collect herself—"

"The dwarves, you mean."

The corner of his mouth turned up. "Aye, the dwarves. Now one man short, thanks to the king."

"He died?"

Killian looked at her as if to say, "How else would their number have decreased?"

"I thought they'd, I don't know, quit or something. Had a falling out with the others…"

"I'm afraid not."

His expression called her sweet, too innocent for retellings such as these, and Emma fought the impulse to insist that, if she wanted to, she could be just as unprincipled as any pirate. But she had a feeling he'd laugh. She hoped Snow White punched him in the face for appearing out of thin air, like Emma should've done.

"She had a similar reaction to yours, actually."— _Ha_.—"A bow being her weapon of choice."

"She shot you?" Despite her moments old desire for him to have received some form of retribution in the past for her present offense, Emma couldn't help her concern. She ran a mental inventory of all his scars, wondering if any could've been carved from an arrowhead.

"Nearly. She'd mistaken me for one of the queen's men and demanded I state my business while I still retained the ability to do so." Killian smiled like he approved of this tactic. "Once she was convinced I was who I claimed to be and not a spy sent to ensnare her, she expressed sincere disinterest in taking further time to think over her wish. She knew what she wanted. She didn't need a year."

"You didn't…"

Killian shook his head. "I did everything in my power to try and persuade her. I told her I understood the pain of not being able to move on from a loved one. I could only speak for myself, but I wouldn't trade the memory for anything. In time, she might feel the same. She said, _'I guess we'll never know.'_ "

"So what did you do?"

"I advised her to sleep on it. If she still felt the same way in the morning, I'd return to grant her wish."

"Did she call you back?"

"She did."

"And?"

"And, I lied. I told her I'd spent the previous evening poring over the guidelines, if you will, and that memory tampering was strictly prohibited." Killian paused, watching the middle distance for a minute while his right hand curled into a fist atop his knee. "The truth was I'd seen its effects once before. It involved complicated magic—even guides more advanced than I had minimal success. Not only did one client forget the person he'd wished to, but everyone he'd come in contact with throughout his life. Family, friends. He had two young sons whose formative years were spent in visitation to that realm's equivalent of an asylum, strangers to their own father."

They sat for a while, neither speaking. Both latching onto this as evidence that they were right—of course, Emma could only speak for herself. How could Killian be so adamant she make her wish when he'd witnessed this kind of result firsthand?

_"Don't you see?"_   She imagined him saying. _"The longer we wait, the greater the potential for tragedy."_

_"I don't care what happens to me,"_ she'd told him a dozen times in her mind, _"I'm not wishing you away."_

And each time, she thought of how she'd almost done just that. When she'd been certain her affections weren't reciprocated, starting over had seemed like the best option. She'd never been so glad about not doing something, but the _almost_ still plagued her.

How could she confide this unthinkable thing in Killian without changing the way he saw her? Without reaching the end of his seeming unlimited understanding?

"So what happened with Snow?"

"She drank The Dark One's potion."

"She…"

What kind of crap story was this?

"Don't look so forlorn, Swan. True Love prevailed in the end, as it always does."

"How?"

"This is where your world's version overlaps—the apple, eternal sleep, curse broken by a kiss. Snow White's wish expired and I never saw her again. I can only assume she and her prince are off somewhere living their Happily Ever After." When Emma didn't give a critique, but instead sat absorbing the finer points of a story that was far too relatable (later, after the shock wore off, she would ask what, if not memory tampering, was performed on clients when wishes were granted, and he would answer, ominously, that no magic was behind the council), Killian said, "Don't tell me you've started to believe in fairytales."

"No." Emma forced a smile. "But I like the way you tell them."

She took a deep breath and envisioned ripping of a Band-Aid. _Quick, easy. Painless—_ whoever coined that saying didn't have the same familiarity with scrapes as Emma did—but when she opened her mouth, nothing came.

In the end, it didn't matter, as they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Killian got up to answer. Emma didn't check her phone.

As she watched Killian pay the kid dressed in an oversized shirt sporting a logo to match the box in his hands, and as he glanced back at her with the warmest smile he'd worn all day, Emma realized she wasn't worried that Killian would never forgive her. She knew he would. She'd known it the night they danced by the light of an abandoned carousel, and the night of their first date. Just as she'd known that night, parked in the middle of nowhere under a starless sky, losing a staring contest to a cupcake, that her almost-wish was not the confession she was most afraid to make.

—

She waited for Killian to say goodnight, but she waited in vain. He took off his shirt and got into bed without a word. Without so much as glancing her way. Flat on his back, gaze fixed on the ceiling, his message couldn't have been clearer. Emma freed her hair of its holder, let it fall loose around her shoulders, and left her phone on the nightstand, alarm set for an early morning, before she turned out the light and climbed in beside him, careful to keep her distance.

She pulled the covers up just under her ribs and settled in to admire the view, sensing that though the only light came from a partial moon creeping through the blinds, Killian hadn't closed his eyes.

Their meal had passed in much the same manner, the ceasefire provided by Killian's story ending as soon as the first slices were selected. Emma had thought about commenting on the excessive grease or the pitiful lack of pepperoni, but she had little confidence these topics would elicit the desired response. Killian probably would've nodded along or grunted in agreement and then silence would've descended, more devastating than before.

She went back and forth in favor of risking another heated debate and leaving the matter until morning when she felt something close around her hand. She looked over as Killian laced their fingers, and she gave his hand a light squeeze that was part acknowledgement, part gratitude for the sign that she wasn't alone in wanting to make peace.

The gesture emboldened her. She turned toward him, seeking a closer position, and he responded by pulling her to his side. Encouraged by his unguarded expression, what'd suddenly carved away the aggravated mask, Emma chanced a kiss, if it could be called that—a barely-there brush of lips, an unspoken _I'm sorry_.

She drew back to see if this was okay. Killian answered with a kiss that merited the name, sighing for the familiar taste, too long kept away, and steadied her as she straddled his lap. It was the most physical contact they'd had all day, but it wasn't enough. They'd been together, but they hadn't been _them_. Gone were the casual touches, the intimate moments, all the differences that, though small, marked the distinction between lover and friend. Tension lifted from her, anticipation taking its place, with every graze of exposed skin, every roll of their hips as they chased greedily after reconciliation.

Killian pulled away, echoing Emma's words back to her, even as his fingers remained rooted in her curls, ready to draw her forward again. "I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

If ever there was a time to tell him, it would've been now. Not because she wanted a bargaining chip, an easy out. Not because it would propel them faster toward the release they both needed. But because it wasn't a question anymore. Because she didn't care that it was too soon. It was real and it was right. It was the truest thing in her world and he deserved to know.

Because even when the fighting got to be too much, when they couldn't agree on a single thing—what to watch or what to eat or if they should just scrap their plans altogether because they needed room to breathe—when the disagreeing turned to vitriol on both sides—Killian damning Emma's refusal to trust that _perhaps_ someone else's strategy might be the right one, and Killian's refusal to look beyond the surface and remember that he knew Emma better than anyone, that she wasn't just being stubborn for the sake of it—when tempers reached their boiling points and Emma threatened to sleep at her place, when she stormed out and stomped away and slammed every door that crossed her, it was never an end.

Because she'd never had a relationship survive so much conflict, the first fight usually being the last.

Even when she thought she wouldn't be able to stomach the sight of him for another second, she'd inevitably find her bed too cold, too empty, her body too restless without his arms to anchor her, and she'd cross the hall to crawl under the covers with him. And he'd pull her close, press a kiss to the back of her neck.

_"I'm still mad at you,"_ she'd say.

And he'd reply, _"I know,"_ as his hand found hers, _"I'm still mad at you, too."_

Because she knew there'd be no moving on from this one.

If ever there was a time to tell him, it would've been now.

The setting was right, but her fears weren't ready. So she settled for another sentiment, equally true. "I don't want to fight anymore."

It could've been her tone, betrayed by a sorrow she hadn't meant to show him, it could've been that her expression displayed every facet of her internal struggle toward courage, but a week's worth of anger faded from Killian's eyes. His kiss was forgiving, apologetic, heartbreaking in its assurance that they hadn't yet faced a dispute they couldn't come back from.

_"I'm in this, Emma. You know that, don't you?"_

The truly frightening thing was, she did know. In the deepest recesses of her soul, she knew that Killian Jones was in this for the long haul. But if the past had taught her anything, it was only a matter of time before _Fo_ _rever_ became a contract he wished he'd never signed.

Later, when her thoughts were a little quieter, a little less restless, as she lay sprawled on Killian's chest, listening to his heartbeat slowing down and feeling herself rise and fall each time he breathed, as his fingertips traced lazy patterns on her back, Emma wondered in the dark, where such musings were safe, if what she and Killian had would ever be strong enough to break a curse.

…

…Emma closed her mouth as her heart sank. As her mind called her a coward and every battered fiber of her being agreed.

"What is it, Love?"

"Nothing." She shook her head in as casual a manner as she could manage. When Killian gave her a look that was eerily similar to her own when on the hunt for lies, she said, "I just…wanted to say thanks. For tonight."

"I'm sure you'll have better success next time."

"No next time. I quit, remember?"

"Ah, but if at first you don't succeed…"

"Find a new hobby." Killian smiled, and Emma trained her gaze on his mouth in the hopes that the flirtation in her voice would disguise any disappointment. "Take me home?"

"What will we do once we get there?"

She pulled him in for another kiss, though it did little to diminish defeat's bitter aftertaste. "Something we're both good at."

Which apparently meant collapsing into bed like they'd never seen one more beautiful, more attuned to the needs of their sore limbs, and falling asleep at an hour that no self-respecting adult would admit to.

—

Emma woke to the sound of dishes and the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen, and she smiled against the pillow she'd officially claimed as her own despite its permanent home in Killian's bed. Not too soft, not too firm, just the right amount of fluff for her liking. Killian's expression when she'd admitted this had been the smug sort of amused, and she'd known, without him saying it out loud, that he was remembering one of them calling the other _Goldilocks_ in the not-so-distant past.

There was a particular pair of sweats that Emma had taken possession of, as well. She snatched them from the bureau, slipped them on—all soft fibers and unfitted waist—and pulled the drawstring so that it hugged her hips before she headed to the bathroom.

They weren't at the stage where Emma was keeping her toothbrush at Killian's place—mainly because she kept forgetting to bring it over. And maybe there was a part of her that still cringed at the thought of invading Killian's space, even though they'd each taken turns spelling it out for the other that this relationship was different, that _this one_ was lasting. Whatever the predominant factor, she made do with mouthwash for now. Settled for running her fingers through the tangles in her hair. The raccoon eyes were a separate, more time-consuming issue, but she got most of the dark smudges rinsed off.

A vague memory worked its way to the forefront of her semi-conscious mind as she padded on bare feet toward the kitchen—did Killian say he had another interview that morning, or had Emma dreamed it? She smiled to herself, not the least bit surprised that he'd set aside time to make her breakfast—

She came to a sudden halt at the sight that greeted her from the head of the table. Helping himself to a plate loaded to the brim with a meal that wasn't meant for him.

Emma thought of everything in the apartment that could be used as a weapon. She kept a spare handgun in the drawer of Killian's nightstand, but she doubted she'd make it there and back again before this guy spotted her.

And she was right.

"I was starting to wonder when you'd wake up—past the age where beauty sleep'll do any good, don't you think?" He spoke around large mouthfuls of food, but the accent was unmistakable—what she guessed to be an English dialect.

"Where's Killian?"

The man stabbed at several clumps of scrambled egg. "I haven't done him off, thank you, and I don't much appreciate the insinuation."

Emma stared at him while she strategized her next move. There were a few reasonably sharp knives on the counter nearest the table, their handles protruding from a wooden block. She might be able to get her hand on one before this guy was the wiser, but she had no way of knowing whether he was armed. And she wasn't about to find out the hard way.

"You know," the stranger pointed his fork in her direction, bits of food dangling from its end, "you almost had me—I _almost_ fell for it again. I can see Jones has chosen a worthy partner."

Almost had him? When did she—

_When Emma looked to the man, himself, he gave her a stiff grin and chased it with a wink. Something about the encounter, aside from seriously creeping her out, left a fleeting impression of déjà vu. The unpleasant sort of intuition that told her she'd had this nightmare before._

Emma's posture went rigid—of all the worst case scenarios Killian had fretted over, this probably hadn't even registered, and it was all her fault. Why hadn't she told him? She braced herself for the very real possibility that she might have to run, and that she might not be fast enough. She'd have to make it count. She could go for her apartment, lock herself inside. Or she could go for her gun.

"How do you know Killian?"

"Taught the man everything he knows—don't tell me he hasn't mentioned his old friend, Alistair." When Emma didn't respond, he said, "Well that's gratitude for you. Grant a man his freedom and he forgets all about you."

Emma stared straight ahead, slack jawed, all thoughts of escape momentarily deferred. This guy was Killian's friend? His former…boss? _He_ was one who helped him?

On the one hand, if he knew Killian, there was every likelihood Killian had been the one to let him in. While Emma was sleeping…

On the other, the only person from Killian's past that Emma knew by name was Liam.

The man—Alistair—looked like someone who may have once been handsome. But where Killian didn't look a day over the physical age he was when he'd made his wish, when the clock had, essentially, stopped, the years had taken their toll on this one.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Didn't I say?" He took Emma's scowl for an answer. "Jones _did_ tell you to expect his replacement…"

" _You're_ my new guide?"

Setting aside his utensils and pushing the plate away—if he expected Emma to clear it for him, he had another thing coming. She'd sooner smash it over his head—he waited for his last bite to be fully processed before speaking again. "I should apologize. I do sometimes forget how easily startled mortals can be. Yes, my name is Alistair," he placed his right hand flat against his chest, "and I am here to guide you toward the happy ending of your choosing. Killian and I have been acquainted for the past three hundred years, but best not to tell him about this, as he is no longer affiliated with magical society. Does any of this confuse you? Shall I make up a chart, code it by color?"

"What am I, five?"

Alistair grinned—an unpleasant sight to behold. All cunning and no warmth. And it turned Emma's stomach to hear one of the first things Killian ever said to her come out of this stranger's mouth. "I can see we're going to have some fun."


	15. (14)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I just wanted to let you know that there are some sections where the tense switches between past and present-this was done on purpose and should hopefully make sense by the end :) Thanks for reading, and for the reviews!

His heart keeps time with a chaotic beat, its rhythm foreboding personified, as the hallway narrows with every tentative step forward.

Where he'd first heard it, he doesn't know. He'd awoken one day and it was part of him, its origins unremembered. Like those of a reflex. Or a first language.

_The world passed in a blur—or was it him? He was motionless only a moment ago, but now it felt as though he were spinning, tumbling, spiraling down, down…_

_Sounds of traffic invaded his ears, mixed with a clamor of confused voices. Footfalls advanced, heavy in their stride—he felt their echo in the earth. One voice rose above the others, demanding access._

_"I think you should stay back," a stranger warned._

_"And I suppose you're going to make me?" A traitor answered._

His hand trembles as it closes around the doorknob. He doesn't knock, doesn't think she'd hear him. The walls of her apartment all but shake with the music coursing through them. With a song Killian shouldn't know.

The bathroom light is on, the door open, and a shadow stretches across its threshold.

There's something uniquely disturbing about déjà vu—this moment is no less troubling for being familiar. Indeed, it is familiarity that most unnerves him. Constricts like a vise as he swallows against a dry throat.

_He couldn't open his eyes, but his ears were sharp. He heard things he might've otherwise dismissed. A distant siren on the wind, a curious crowd quietly shuffling, the panicked thrumming of his pulse._

_His jacket shifted around his shoulders as something brushed against his side. A mumbled expletive, close by. Summoning all his strength, he could almost squint._

_A shadow moved across his field of vision, refusing to focus._

The scene is an echo. A memory. As is the ice in his veins.

He's walked these steps before, has heard the running water and the hissed curses and the slamming cabinet doors.

_"Look on the bright side, Jones," the shadow whispered, "I'm told a little suffering is good for the soul. Character building, and all that."_

He rounds the corner and there she is. Picking shards of glass from her arm. Every bare inch of her covered in cuts.

All he sees is red—

Killian woke with a start. It took him a moment to recognize where he was. To understand that the bed beneath him was not asphalt, nor the ceiling an overcast sky.

_A dream_ , he told himself. _It was—_

"Mm…" Emma turned toward him, eyes narrowed, mouth overtaken by a pronounced pout. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Killian steadied his voice, kissed her cheek. "It was nothing. A nightmare. Go back to sleep."

That was all the persuading she needed. She was out again almost instantly, arms tucked under her pillow for added support. Killian ran soft fingers over the one nearest him to ensure that the skin was as unbroken as it appeared. That his previous visions were the dream and this, the waking world.

Once convinced that Emma was well and truly unconscious, Killian got out of bed, making his movements light so as not to disturb her again, and he crept toward the closet.

He kept it in the back, hidden from view. Mangled beyond repair, the jacket had been promptly replaced following his accident, upgraded, and never thought of again. Killian reached for it now, fished inside its pockets. For what, he didn't know. Evidence, he supposed, of some larger scheme.

Evidence, it turned out, was the size of a marble. Small and round and marked by a combination of colors. Whorls of amethyst and turquoise and jade. Though its surface mimicked that of a precious stone, its appearance was commonplace—muddled clarity, inexpert cut. Something the average mortal might overlook. But Killian was anything but average. And mortal, he had not always been.

—

That morning, Killian was the first to wake, though he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever fallen back to sleep. If he had, it wasn't deep, and there was no rest to be taken from it. On the bright side, if he couldn't sleep, he couldn't dream.

Emma groaned at the ringing of her alarm, her arm snaking its way out from under the covers in search of the _snooze_ button. The flat of her palm met the surface of the nightstand once, twice, before touching upon its target. Then it and her phone disappeared inside her cocoon.

Killian held in his laugh as he pulled back the covers.

"Five more minutes," Emma mumbled as she tapped at the screen.

Killian snatched the device from her hands. "And five more and five more..."

She turned to him with a frown, her hair a glorious mess of tangles around her face. "Maybe I'll skip work today."

"We both know you won't."

She hugged the covers to her chest and closed her eyes. "It's so cozy here."

"The bed will still be here when you get home."

Emma smiled, the way she always did—whether of a subconscious impulse or not, Killian didn't know—whenever he said the word _home_. "And where will you be?"

"Counting the minutes until I see you again."

Emma laughed, looking up at him. "Are you always this cheesy?"

"Only when I'm happy."

Emma didn't have an answer for that, or if she did, it went unshared. She stayed staring at Killian for a beat and then got out of bed, turning back to kiss his cheek before she went to take a shower, her smile never waning.

The sound of running water reached Killian's ears as he moved to the bureau. Inside the top middle drawer, he found the previous night's discovery right where he'd left it. He knew what it reminded him of, what he would've assumed it was, were it delivered by any person other than Alistair. But considering that such articles were kept under magical lock and key, obtaining one without the council's consent was impossible. To say nothing of the fact that had Alistair indeed accomplished such a feat, he would've then needed to smuggle said article between worlds.

Killian decided it was a message. One that required unlocking. Also, that anything Alistair wished to relay was bound to be malicious. Killian left the item where it lay, sandwiched between two pairs of socks, and shut the drawer. He'd say one thing for his former mentor: Alistair had always excelled at mind games.

Killian was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Emma's approach until she was right beside him. He jumped when the next drawer over was opened, and looked at her as though he'd been caught doing something unseemly. And he supposed he had. Keeping secrets from one's romantic partner wasn't what he'd consider good form.

But there wasn't much to tell—not yet. Not until he got some sort of handle on what was happening. All he had were a few recurring nightmares and an object that could've easily fallen out of a child's toy collection.

Clothed in a towel, her hair spawning streams down her shoulders and neck, Emma rifled through the spare outfits she'd recently started keeping at his place. They hadn't made an occasion of it. Killian had merely mentioned in passing one day that the left-hand drawer of his dresser was empty and Emma had taken the hint. The next time she'd stayed over, she'd deposited a few items inside, and then a few more the time after that, until the drawer was full. These days it was rather close to overflowing. Killian smiled at the garments hanging over the edge as Emma rummaged in the far back.

"Must've left it across the hall," she said.

"Is there something you've _not_ brought over, then?" Emma followed Killian's gaze as he took a survey of the items she'd left strewn about. So many, in fact, that his bedroom now resembled hers.

Killian thought he might've seen a hint of pink color her cheeks, but it was gone by the time she looked back at him, arms crossed and chin turned up. "I don't know what you mean."

"Well you aren't the tidiest houseguest, are you?"

Emma narrowed her eyes, her gaze searching—perhaps for something to throw at him. But all she had was the towel on her back; her attention trained on it, tempted. Killian gave her a onceover followed by a quirk of his brow.

"Go on, Love. Nothing I haven't already seen."

"Don't count on seeing it again any time soon."

Killian laughed, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her toward him. For all her apparent insult, she let him. "You could, you know."

"Could what?"

"Bring over more of your belongings."

"You're not feeling claustrophobic yet?" The question was light enough, but her tone carried a fearful undercurrent. Something that had never known steady footing.

"On the contrary, Swan. I quite like it. Feels…" his eyes took another sweep of the room, "…warmer."

Emma's expression softened in a way he was sure he'd never seen. She kissed him—long and lingering, it filled Killian with regret over not having encouraged her to shirk responsibility, just this once. When she drew back, her mouth hung open as though working up to a speech that never came. Her hand grazed the stubble along his jaw and she settled for, "I'll see you tonight."

She grabbed some clothes—tossing one of the more heavily buttoned garments Killian's way with lackluster force—and headed to the bathroom, looking back briefly before she shut the door.

—

The text came just as Killian cracked the spine of a dust-covered edition that probably hadn't been exposed to daylight since the shop's inception.

At first glance, the cluttered storefront hadn't inspired much confidence. Killian soon found that the inside was no better. He couldn't imagine how anything was located amidst the overcrowded shelves and piles upon piles of books that littered every surface from the counters to the floor. If not for an abundance of windows casting light about the stacks, it would've felt inordinately cramped. Fortunately, Killian was accustomed to tight quarters.

**_What're you doing?_ **

Killian looked from his phone to the book in his hand and typed a response that wasn't a lie, but wasn't the whole truth. **_Reading. How's work?_**

**_Ugh. Don't ask._ **

Lightning flashed outside and immediately after, a crash sounded from the room behind the register, the door rattling on its hinges before it was wrenched open. Out walked a short, stout, balding man wearing a wool sweater and dark framed glasses that had what looked like twine for a neck strap. He carried an overstuffed duffel bag in one hand and a small collection of books in the other.

He took one look at Killian and said, "We're closed."

"Sign on the door said otherwise."

The man, whom Killian could only assume was the shop's namesake, peered over those dark rims but didn't answer. He huffed to himself, mumbling as he dropped his duffel bag at his feet. It landed with a jarringly loud _thud_. Killian took the man's impatient punching of buttons on the till to mean that he should make his final selection while he still had the opportunity.

He closed the book in his hand, snagged a couple from the shelf where it'd been wedged—each relating to the subject matter that wouldn't let him sleep—and walked them to the counter. At least, he assumed that was what held up the impossible mound of books.

"Taking a trip?" Killian asked, gesturing to the discarded duffel and seeing that it was not the sole of its kind.

The shop owner looked at Killian without much change in his expression, but Killian got the impression that this was his incredulous face. "In case you haven't noticed, the world is coming to an end." Killian glanced out the nearest window in time to see another flash of lightning. "If you were smart, you'd do the same."

There'd been a series of spontaneous dry lightning storms all across the state—caused quite the pile-up outside Worcester, according to news reports—but Killian didn't see them as any reason to take leave of one's permanent residence, much less one's senses.

After Killian paid, instead of adding his cash to the collection of bills in the drawer, the shop owner pocketed it, cleared out the rest, and stared at Killian with a look that said, "Are we done here?"

Killian uttered a quiet _thanks_ and walked out. He heard the door latch and lock behind him and turned around in time to see the shop owner flip the sign from _open_ to _closed_ with a sharp, distrustful eye on Killian.

**_This city's gone insane_** , Emma's next text read.

Watching through the glass door as the shopkeeper stomped away, Killian found that he didn't disagree.

—

Curiosity compelled him to gaze at the marble-shaped mystery all day, that it might surrender its many secrets to his undying stare. But Killian refused to waste time on such nonsense, no matter how strong the object's pull. Still, he did take it from its hiding place, and he did carry it with him to the living room. And he did roll it around his palm, between his fingers, like it was a mechanism for alleviating stress.

He'd combed through his bookstore purchases, all written by self-proclaimed experts on paranormal occurrences, who were in fact, by Killian's assessment, filthy thieving frauds. There was nothing to be gained from the texts that Killian couldn't have penned himself. Not that he'd expected much insight into magic from a world so devoid of it.

He turned his attention to the item that'd beckoned him last night, called to his subconscious and willed him to wake. As though it'd wanted to be found. Grasped between his thumb and forefinger, the small sphere seemed harmless. Comically so. Like something he'd seen in a movie poster some years ago—a gold ring in the hand of a man commissioned with its destruction. A trinket with a will of its own.

Killian studied the marble closely. And as he did, its colors appeared to shift slightly, to blend together, swirling slowly toward the center like water down a drain.

Alistair had once told him that like calls to like, at least with regards to magic. Had told Killian many of the things that'd eventually shaped him into the guide that Emma had first met. He'd taught Killian to keep his record clean, follow the rules, don't stir up trouble. Don't catch the attention of the council, no matter how appealing their favor might seem. Like everything else in that forsaken realm, partiality came with a price. But despite Alistair's caution, or perhaps because of it, Killian had found himself in the council's good graces—a standard by which other guides were measured. One member in particular had taken quite a shine to him.

She wasn't what he'd imagined a sorceress to be. Great and terrible beauty, a cruel temperament, a calm yet biting tongue—these were the things he'd been taught to expect of one so ancient. While she possessed all these attributes in small measure, there was something grim about her. Something that was better left unchallenged, and something that, at the same time, dared a person to cross that lethal line just to see what would happen.

She'd been the one to take him into her chambers, the one to ask—

Killian blinked and the memory was gone. Cut off before it'd truly begun. He heard the faint rapping that some part of his mind knew meant a visitor at his door, but Killian sat frozen in place, transfixed by what he held in his hand, the small, innocuous orb now translucent. He closed his eyes, tried to recapture the images he'd seen, images he'd lived through but couldn't quite recall. But they left no trace behind. And when he opened his eyes, the marble had adopted its former whorled shades as though nothing had happened. As though Killian had imagined the whole thing.

He ran a hand down his face and got up from the couch when the knocking sounded again, louder this time, and he dropped the marble into his pants pocket.

Emma smiled as soon as she saw him, the action lighting up her whole face, and Killian felt anxiety both relax and tighten its grip on him. She was everything he'd been too afraid to want, everything he was so afraid to lose.

She lifted a round plastic container toward him, her smile widening—if that were possible. "I brought cake."

"What's the occasion?"

"Do I need an occasion? It's cake."

"Fair point."

Killian stepped back to let her pass. She went for the coffee table instead of the kitchen—with plans to eat straight from the carton, Killian realized—but stopped at the sight of the books he'd scattered there, each lying open on top of another.

There was a silver chain around her neck that Killian hadn't seen her wear before, with something that looked like a pendant dangling near the collar of her white knit sweater. If he looked closely, it appeared eerily similar to—

"What's all this?"

"Research." Killian scratched behind his ear, remembering too late that Emma had been the one to point out how often he did this when nervous—a telltale _tic_. "Did you know that in Boston, frightening away pigeons is an offense punishable by up to a month in prison?"

"I think some of those laws are even older than you."

Emma turned to him with a smirk and Killian felt a pang of guilt at the lie. At how easily it'd rolled off his tongue. And for hoping she didn't look too closely at the pages that had nothing to do with acquainting himself with this world and everything to do with a problem he both longed and dreaded to solve.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the object in Killian's pocket grew cold against his leg.

—

"Are you concentrating?"

Killian's hands curled into fists as he stared down his target. As he channeled all of his mental energy into this single task. "What the bloody hell does it look like?" He loosed a long breath, rubbing his fingertips back and forth across his thumbs as though to generate a spark.

"It looks like you're going to pull a muscle."

Killian flashed an unamused smirk at his companion, who smiled without restraint. Her hair was pink today, but only along the lower half, like the color was slowly being leeched from its strands.

"Remind me why we're doing this again?"

"As a precaution."

"Precaution. Right." Charlotte nodded. "Against what, exactly?"

"Against…"

Well, he wasn't quite sure. The answer that readied itself on his tongue had been _trickery_. Deceit. Foul play. But if he were being honest, he didn't have any unqualified proof. It was more an inkling that something was off. That maybe _he_ was off. That he had somehow been…tampered with.

"It's just a test," he said, though he could think of one that might be more conclusive.

"Nothing's moved in an hour—I think we have our answer."

Killian looked across the room, to where a collection of items lay atop Charlotte's writing desk—an empty coffee cup, a stack of sketchbooks, Killian's keys, his jacket. Undisturbed as the moment they'd been set down.

Nothing pulsed beneath his skin or kicked up his heartrate. He was as calm and collected as he'd ever been, if a bit anxious. Unsettled, really. Paranoid.

Yes, that seemed a fitting word for what he was.

He hadn't wanted to confront that voice inside, what began as a whisper and grew steadily over the course of several weeks into a roar so loud he sometimes wondered if others could hear it. If Emma could. If the look in her eyes was an echo of what he'd felt from the moment he signed his final council-issued contract. If she sensed that it'd been too good to be true. Too easy. If some part of her knew, as Killian knew, that he didn't deserve the happiness that'd been handed to him.

"Once more," he said.

Charlotte shoved her hands into her pockets and sighed.

"I don't require an audience," Killian told her.

"I'm not the one who showed up at your door in a strop."

"I didn't—" Killian reminded himself to remain calm. Take deep breaths. Concentrate. "Don't you have a client that needs tending to?"

"She's on a date. Said not to wait up. And don't think I'd leave you alone in here."

"Afraid I'd steal the lampshade?"

Charlotte glared at him but had no defense for the sparseness of the room. There wasn't much to speak of in the way of furnishings. A bed. A desk with matching chair. Table lamp. Dresser. Charlotte had informed Killian—what seemed every day since taking on her first official client from the Land Without Magic—that she wouldn't be staying long. She'd have the whole thing wrapped up in a month, at most. Then it was back to HQ—though, why she was eager to return to that wretched place, Killian was loath to ask.

Unlike Emma, Charlotte's client hadn't insisted her guide find other accommodations and had even supplied Charlotte with a room of her own.

There'd been an open sketchbook on the desk when Killian had arrived, one that'd immediately piqued his interest. With Charlotte's permission, he'd perused its pages and discovered her to be an accomplished artist. He'd stopped at a sketch depicting a firedrake of alarming detail and she'd told him it was the plan for her next tattoo.

_"You're quite the talent."_

_She said, "Thanks," but avoided his gaze._

_Killian turned the page, and what he saw next had Charlotte at his side in a matter of strides, slamming the book closed and hiding it away in the desk's top drawer—which she sealed with a wave of her hand. "Was that—?"_

_"It's nothing."_

_"It didn't look like nothing. It looked like—"_

_"They're just some stupid sketches. Are you ready to start?"_

_Killian didn't answer right away. He studied Charlotte as he worked over what he knew of her character like it was a riddle, each clue more curious than the last. But he couldn't account for why a low-level recruit would require blueprints of the facility at HQ._

"Does this mean you've decided to start taking your position seriously?"

"I'm not sure what you're insinuating—I have always prided myself on being the consummate professional."

Killian arched his brow at her and she grinned.

Sarcasm was a far cry from the nervousness and hand-wringing he'd come to associate with Charlotte. The first time he'd met with her post-termination, she'd scarcely looked away from her shoes. And her voice had been laced with borderline horror when she'd asked him if he'd really fallen for a client. _One of them_ , had been her exact phrasing.

_"They're not all bad,"_ Killian had said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

He knew that where Charlotte had been raised, citizens of the Land Without Magic were a special breed of evil. The monsters used to warn children against wandering too far from their parents' sight. The shadows that lurked in wardrobes and under beds. They were the creatures that snatched infants from cribs and stole into the night.

A hundred years ago, Killian might've shared Charlotte's wariness, having learned that the hunters whom guides had to thank for present protocols being in place had originally hailed from this world. There was a hatred and a fear of magic here that still ran deep. With one breath they craved what solutions magic could provide, harbored fantasies, made wishes, and with the next, they cursed the very nature of such things.

"So you think Alistair lied," said Charlotte, cutting off Killian's concentration.

Sweat trickled down the side of his face. And though he hadn't moved, though nothing had, he felt out of breath. He clenched his hands into fists and then spread them open, stretching his fingers wide. Shook the strain from his limbs. "Deception isn't exactly outside his character."

Charlotte chewed her bottom lip, looking from the sad collection of objects to the spot where Killian stood, her eyes vacant—violet where during their last visit they'd been green. Killian had seen them amber, as well. And on one occasion, silver. Not since he and Charlotte were first introduced had he observed their natural brown.

"You said he hates you, right? Like you have some blood feud or something?"

"Or something."

"So wouldn't your freedom be the last thing he'd want? Why go through with some elaborate hoax all for show?"

Killian had used the same justification in those first weeks. Had clung to the idea that Alistair couldn't possibly have orchestrated Killian's early release when he would've lied, cheated, committed every offense short of murder simply to ensure that very thing never happened.

It'd hit Killian late one night as he lay awake, unable to sleep for the violent visions running rampant through his unconscious. How much more satisfying might it be to watch an enemy realize his happiness was a lie?

And in light of what Charlotte had told him that day at the Liar's Den…

_"Councilman Jacobs is dead."_

_Killian couldn't keep the shock from his face as Charlotte pulled back, her whispered words still ringing in his ear. "Who?" Was all he'd managed to say in return._

_Charlotte shook her head, casting uneasy glances at the men Killian had accompanied to the bar that was little more than a literal hole in the wall. "They don't know. Not for sure."_

_Killian leaned in close, lowering his voice. "But they suspect someone?"_

_Charlotte hugged her bag tightly to her chest, her eyes darting between the faces of patrons who'd tried and failed to hide their interest in this hushed exchange. "They think…" one final glance around and then she mouthed Alistair's name._

_Killian scarcely had time to process this news before she was out the door. By the time he reached the pavement outside, Charlotte was at the far end of the road and Emma was fast approaching._

"Something like that would take a lot of work," said Charlotte.

"He's had a long time to stew in his anger." And to plan.

"What makes you sure it's a trap?"

Killian clenched his jaw, narrowed his eyes at the object closest to the desk's edge. "It's what I would do."

He felt a chill run down his spine as the object of his focus shifted and then sprang to life, moving with human animation, as though invisible arms filled its sleeves. Just as swiftly, it collapsed. Before panic could gain a grip on him, Charlotte made a sound like laughter and Killian turned toward her.

"I'm sorry," she said, though the sound now bubbled out of her, "I couldn't resist."

If Killian weren't so relieved, he might've chided her for playing such a cruel trick. Instead, he stomped toward the desk, pulled on his now lifeless jacket, dropped his keys into his pocket, and headed for the door.

"Oh, come on—you don't have to _leave_. It was a joke." She was at his side with remarkable speed.

"Remember when you were too afraid to speak to me?" Said Killian. "I miss those days."

Charlotte feigned insult before lapsing into another fit of guffaws. "You should've seen your face."

—

"Remind me how this is different from watching one at home?"

Emma's grip on his hand tightens in time with her smile—a reassuring gesture. Killian opens his mouth to remind her that he's been to a movie theater before when she says, "There's a giant screen and overpriced snacks." She leans into him, her shoulder grazing his arm. "And being in public should deter you from getting too handsy."

"You underestimate the effect you have on me, Swan."

Emma smiles like she can read his mind and isn't completely averse to what she finds there. "You can keep it in your pants for two hours—I have every confidence in you."

"If I recall correctly, _my_ hands were not the problem during the last film."

Emma tries for a scowl but just misses the mark. "What are you trying to insinuate?"

"I'm not insinuating anything, Love." Killian slows his pace, pulling Emma back by the hand. She turns easily toward him. "I'm _saying_ you find me irresistible."

"Is that right?"

"It's really quite embarrassing."

Emma closes the space between them and drops her voice to a whisper as her lips graze the corner of Killian's mouth. "We're gonna be late."

When Killian moves in for a proper public display, Emma pulls away, dragging him toward the box office.

"You're also something of a tease."

Emma glances over her shoulder, the portrait of innocence. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

At the end of twenty minutes, the line has started to wrap itself around the building.

"Opening weekend has its drawbacks," Emma says, but it's far from the harshest complaint Killian's ever heard. Her eyes lock on a shop across the street and she takes a step in its direction. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

Armed with a grin that's pure mischief, she says softly, conspiratorially, "To pick up some contraband," and kisses him quickly before she leaves, maneuvering between gridlocked cars.

Killian is anxious as he watches her go, though he can't account for why. Can't understand what caused the chill down his spine, the pinch at the base of his neck, the nagging suspicion that's stalked him since he and Emma left their building early that afternoon. Or why his instincts tell him to go after her.

Paranoia has become far too fond of him.

The line inches forward, taking Killian with it. When his turn comes at the window, he almost forgets why he's there, his mind having crossed the road with Emma. The cashier's pointedly patient voice shakes him from his daze and Killian apologizes.

"Long day?" The cashier asks as Killian readies his payment to slide through the cutout in the glass.

"You could say that." He attempts a light smile but the action strains his efforts.

"I hate to make it longer, but movie's sold out."

Killian doesn't know what it is about her words that triggers something inside him—something primal—but he darts into traffic, to the chagrin of the evening's commuters. He didn't see which shop Emma entered—all the storefronts blur together in the haze of a panic so sudden Killian still doesn't know what caused it. Or why he's answered.

A faint ringing of bells cuts through his thoughts, and Killian turns to see a door open a few shops over, a head of blonde hair emerge. Emma holds the door for the next customer, smiling at something they've said.

Killian calls her name but she doesn't hear.

A car honks its horn and Killian freezes in place, paralyzed by a fear so terrifyingly familiar it has to be true. Truer than the voice of reason demanding he get a grip on himself. Insisting nothing's wrong. That he is the only troubling part in this equation. The variable that doesn't fit. He should take a breath, collect his composure, abandon all thoughts of doom.

Traffic starts to move, its flow frantic. Horns blaring, drivers cursing. Murmurs rise around him, and he sees the final puzzle piece moving into position, scattering pedestrians like rats. The car careens across the lanes without a care for collateral damage. Headed straight for Emma.

Killian hears his own voice as though it belongs to someone else. Distant. Detached. Swallowed up by the chaos. All he sees is Emma. And he knows he'll be too late.

Time slows to a crawl—

Killian feels every moment with acute anguish as he commands his feet forward, as they refuse to comply. As Emma, realizing she's in the direct path of destruction, tries to run.

—and then it stops.

Killian sat up, fighting to catch his breath. Sweat beaded his forehead, the sides of his face, his knuckles turned white from his grip on the sheets.

The last time he'd had dreams this vivid—

No, they'd never been like this. Never been this… _tactile_ before. This real. Like a memory he hadn't lived through.

He looked to the other side of the bed. Empty. Still coming down from the dream's intensity, his first impulse was to panic.

Her voice filled his ears before he realized he'd grabbed his phone. "You've reached Emma Swan—"

It was then that he remembered she was out of town. He let out a long breath and hung up.

—

Killian had just crossed into the cemetery when the air outside turned cold, crisp, when it lost its previous calm. The apartment had started to feel a tad too cramped, the air a tad too stale. No matter how many times he reminded himself that it was just a dream, he'd been unable to shake off its effects.

Still no word from Emma, but that was to be expected. They sometimes went days without speaking when she was on a case. Killian had an idea as to what she might say if he told her the cause of his insomnia.

_"You've been having a lot of those lately."_

And he had. Too many. Each nightmare more disturbing than the last.

A chill ran across Killian's neck. He hadn't set out with this destination in mind. He'd merely needed to move. To breathe. To evade the visions that plagued the hours he should've slept.

He wouldn't have entered had he not seen her. Had the sight of her hunched over a weathered gravestone not told him what day it was. Her mouth had moved without sound as her head fell forward, her shoulders shaking when she'd stood in the spot Killian now occupied.

_Arthur Pasternak_ , the epitaph read. _1921-1979_

Beside this headstone was another. Much older and adorned with a weeping angel.

_Aaron Arthur Pasternak_

_1947-1956_

Killian didn't know how long he'd been standing there when the call startled him from his mournful trance, Emma's voice like balm to his sudden sorrow. Just her initial, "Hey," was enough to set him more at ease. But as she caught him up on her version of the past few days, a sizeable part of his mind was still with a nine year old boy he'd never met.

He wondered what'd happened—had it been the same sickness that'd taken the lad's father? Or had it been a tragic childhood accident? Killian remembered the elder Pasternak's funeral and the few people who'd attended—his wife the last among them to leave. Liam had been buried on a bright, sun-filled day as well, though Killian's memory always turned it a dull gray. He imagined that was how Mrs. Pasternak would remember her husband's burial. Dark and cold despite the sun breaking through clouds so white they appeared to have been painted onto a pale blue sky.

There'd been instances since Killian had signed away his magic where he'd caught himself trying to fall back on habits he thought he'd broken—especially where Emma was concerned. Even something as small as a papercut prodded his protective instincts and he'd find himself willing the wound to heal. But it was like trying to draw water from an empty tap. He felt it again in that moment, as his eyes traced the dates of a child's life over and again. He wanted to leave something—flowers perhaps—to show his sympathy.

"Where are you?" This question from Emma brought him back to the present and to the darkness surrounding him. To that familiar disquiet.

"Just lying down."

There was a short pause. Then Emma said, "Are you sure?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm looking at your bed and you're not in it."

Killian apologized for the lie, admitted where he'd gone and what'd led him there. When Emma pressed him for further details, asking if he was still under client privilege now that he wasn't a guide anymore, Killian told her about the one wish he'd been unable to grant.

Failure was a strong word, he'd been told. He shouldn't have been so hard on himself. It wasn't his fault. He was a good man.

Platitudes of the worst kind.

He knew they held some kernel of truth, that his hands had been tied. _"There are some things even magic cannot cure."_ But that didn't keep him from feeling as though he'd abandoned a man in his hour of need.

Emma was silent for a long time, her words escaping softly once found. "Are you on your way home?"

"Aye, Love."

"When you get here, don't come up."

Killian agreed to meet her outside their building with little information beyond, _"I have an idea,"_ and ended the call. Just as he turned to leave, he cast a final glance back at the weeping angel and saw a bouquet of white lilies laid over her arms.

He searched the grounds for any retreating shadows, but there were none.

—

The lights flickered and then went out. The unreliable electric box that considered itself a modern convenience came to a halt. Killian felt a twinge of irritation at yet one more thing going wrong. But he reined in his temper, repeating the same two words in his mind like a mantra: _almost home, almost home, almost—_

He hadn't intended to use excessive force—and by his best recollection, he hadn't. Not nearly enough to compromise the machine's structural integrity (which, in all fairness, wasn't entirely sound to begin with). A mere tap of his fist to the appropriate button. That was all.

The split in his knuckle was nothing to the shock that bit his skin, shot up his arm like a jolt. It splintered outward from the control panel—cracks of lightning splitting the wall—and stopped just shy of the doors.

The hum of reawakened gears sounded just as the lights came back on, and the elevator moved once more between floors.

Killian was out before the doors had fully opened, scrambling to regain stable ground. He peered back at the contraption, at a loss for reasonable explanation. That thing was a bloody menace. He hadn't survived this long to be bested by a poor man's portal.

Gathering his wits, he turned down the hallway to Emma's apartment. Just as he rounded the bend, he passed Mrs. Pasternak and her new companion, leading her merrily by the leash. Killian smiled, and to his surprise, his neighbor smiled back. The dog, a fine specimen in Killian's opinion, sniffed around his feet and up his calf. Then, having picked up the horrendous scent that'd been spilled on him at the fragrance shop—to the embarrassment of its sales associate—the dog huffed as if trying to expel the perfume as swiftly and violently as possible. Killian couldn't blame him. The scent hadn't been pleasant in a single spritz. The entire bottle emptied onto his pant leg was surely nothing short of aromatic torture.

It'd been his last stop, and the final nail in the coffin of his excitement. Killian had started the day so optimistic, so determined to find the right gift—with this realm's overabundance of merchants, it hadn't occurred to him that he'd return home empty-handed. He took some consolation in knowing he had several months yet until he absolutely had to find a present. He wanted this year to be special. It wasn't enough that she wouldn't be alone—this year, Killian wanted Emma to feel as richly cherished as she'd always deserved. He was resolved that her twenty-eighth year would be the best she'd known by far.

With a gentle laugh, Killian bid a good evening to Mrs. Pasternak and warned her against taking the elevator. A warning she gratefully heeded.

When Emma had asked him to meet her outside a pet shop at four in the morning, Killian had been confused, to say the least. She'd been peeking through the darkened windows at the slumbering animals inside when Killian greeted her, careful not to startle her and provoke her right hook (a lesson he'd learned the hard way and would not soon forget). They'd waited at a nearby diner for the shop to open, and Emma had told him of the contention between her and Mrs. Pasternak.

It'd warmed Killian's heart to watch Emma watching their neighbor's door from the far end of the hall, peering around the corner, eager to read the surprise on Mrs. Pasternak's face when she saw the anonymous gift. He'd wondered then if he should tell Emma he loved her, for he'd never been more certain of anything as he'd been at that moment. Would it have scared her off even after all she'd confessed regarding her own affections? He'd supposed that, for the time being, it was enough just to know. Enough not to taint the first time with the secrets he still kept.

His dark suspicions about what was happening to him. Why he couldn't sleep. And where he really went when he told Emma he had an interview.

He'd begun his search with the best of intentions, and had actively sought employment from a world he hadn't been born into. One that seemed rather intent on rejecting him. But his motivation had quickly dwindled. Still, if he was going to stay here and build a life with Emma, he'd have to put in the effort—and while he'd been called many things throughout the centuries, quitter was not one of them.

Then the dreams started. Nightmares. Terrors so tangible he sometimes couldn't tell them apart from reality. Some, like the one where Alistair stood over his body as he lost consciousness, were no more than memories relieved. Others…

The ones in which Emma…

Those were a different animal entirely.

At first he'd thought they'd been a side effect of living suddenly without magic after hundreds of years as its reluctant wielder. Surely that sort of drastic change took its toll on a person. But now…

Killian continued down the hall, burdened by his own conscience. He'd have to tell Emma eventually. But how did one go about telling the woman he loved that he was losing his mind?

His next step faltered as the first few notes registered.

His heart kept time with a chaotic beat, its rhythm foreboding personified, as the hallway narrowed with every tentative step forward.

When he'd first heard it, he didn't know. He'd awoken one day and it was part of him, its origins unremembered. Like those of a reflex. Or a first language.

His hand trembled as it closed around the doorknob. He didn't knock, didn't think she'd hear him. The walls of her apartment all but shook with the music coursing through them. With a song Killian shouldn't know.

The bathroom light was on, the door open, and a shadow stretched across its threshold.

There was something uniquely disturbing about déjà vu—this moment was no less troubling for being familiar. Indeed, it was familiarity that most unnerved him. Constricted like a vise as he swallowed against a dry throat.

The scene was an echo. A memory. As was the ice in his veins.

He'd walked these steps before, had heard the running water and the hissed curses and the slamming cabinet doors.

He rounded the corner and there she was. Picking shards of glass from her arm. Every bare inch of her covered in cuts.

All Killian saw was red.

—

She was halfway through a bottle of Scotch whisky and slurring her words, but Killian got the gist of what'd happened. She'd tried shrugging it off, saying it wasn't that serious. Killian eventually got her to admit that because of the situation with Brennan she no longer had an arrangement with his father and she didn't want to deal with the hassle of an ER over a few scrapes.

Emma sucked air between her teeth, pulling back as the antiseptic made contact with a particularly deep cut. At Killian's silent apology, she surrendered her arm once more to his care.

"So I'm to take it this person got away?" Killian dabbed at the wound.

Emma scowled, said, "Not for long," and took another swig straight from the whisky bottle, which Killian pried from her hand and set just out of reach.

"Any more of that," he said, "and you'll sleep for a week."

"I see no problem with that." Emma tilted her head back, her body going slack as she closed her eyes, and nearly fell backward into the tub. She laughed when she caught her balance, latching onto Killian's shoulders for support. He looked up at her from where he kneeled on the bathroom floor, and he'd be damned if he didn't want to laugh along with her.

"We'll be here all night, you keep that up," he cautioned instead. "Is there a place on your body that didn't sustain injury?"

"You think this is bad, you should see the other guy."

"The window, you mean?"

Emma snorted. "I don't know why _you're_ so grumpy— _I'm_ the one who almost died."

Killian gripped her arm perhaps a tad too tightly and Emma's good humor wavered. She seemed to sense, even through her alcohol-induced haze, that Killian didn't think it a joking matter. He didn't mean for his expression to be so much like a reprimand. Emma couldn't know that he'd been dreaming of that very thing happening for weeks on end. That this was the closest one of his nightmares had come to being realized.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, forced kindness back into his eyes, gentleness into his grasp, as he continued his ministrations.

Emma was quiet for a long time after that. Reflective. "I knew this woman, once. Not very well, but…" Her mouth turned down the way it did when she was contemplating something particularly unpleasant. She looked to Killian, her eyes suddenly welling with unshed tears. "I know how much worse it could've been." Killian didn't realize he'd stopped moving until she said, "Do you ever feel like some things are too heavy to handle on your own?"

Killian nodded, his voice nowhere to be found amidst a barrage of memories that felt a kindred connection to that sentiment. For years the world had been much more manageable after a few sips of rum. And a few more…

"Aye," he finally said as he took up his task again. "But you're not alone, Swan."

Even as he said it, he felt like a hypocrite. How many burdens was he currently attempting deal with on his own?

She gave him a sad smile and said, "I know."

There were not nearly as many gashes, and none nearly as deep, as he'd first perceived. When each of them was cleaned, Killian helped Emma to her feet, draping one of her arms over his shoulders, and guided her to her room. Unsteady on her feet, Killian aided her attempts at tucking herself under the covers. Once she was safely settled for the night, he left a parting kiss upon her forehead and turned to go.

Emma grabbed his hand, halting him. "What're you doing?"

Her eyes were wide with disbelief, as though the idea of him leaving were the most absurd thing imaginable. Killian suddenly couldn't think of a single place he'd rather be, despite the uneasiness working its way past the wall he'd built in his mind. The one currently warding off all thoughts, no matter how deeply rooted in truth, that pertained to his having dreamt events before they'd transpired. He climbed in beside Emma and held her close, thankful that she hadn't been taken from him that day.

Just as unconsciousness started to close its clutches around him, scraping against the barrier of his memory like the talons of a mythical beast, he heard Emma say quietly into her pillow, "You smell weird."

—

Killian kissed a path down Emma's neck, glancing up at her when he reached the swell of her breast and received no reaction—her body remained motionless atop the still-made bed as though she'd accompanied him there for an evening nap.

"Where are you, Love?" He propped himself up on his arms when she didn't answer, and got a better look at the distant expression clouding her eyes. "Swan?"

"Hm?" She blinked a few times before meeting his gaze. "I'm here."

Killian's only response to that blatant falsehood was to quirk his brow.

Emma smiled as she touched a hand to the side of his face and guided him forward. "I'm here," she said against his mouth, her tone soft, laced with the slightest hint of seduction.

For a moment, Killian fell for it—that half-hearted enthusiasm. His lips resumed their previous trail as his hands reached behind Emma's back, intent to relieve her of the lacy little underthing she'd denied wearing for him—a lie her smile betrayed.

"I used to eat at that stupid café every day when I first moved here."

Killian sighed, resting his head on Emma's chest. When he moved to lay beside her, he saw that the passion had returned to her eyes—just not for the matter he would've preferred.

"How is this right?" She raised one hand and let it fall against her jean-clad thigh. "It's not like I tossed myself through that window. I'm as much of a victim in all this as they are. If I ever get my hands on that asshole—why are you smiling?"

It'd been a week since Killian had walked in on one of his dreams manifested. Earlier that evening, she'd been served papers informing her that the restaurant owner held her responsible for any and all damages sustained during her struggle with a bail jumper who, in the end, had gotten away. And in the hours since, Killian had had to talk her down from a murderous rage at least a dozen times.

"I'm just reminding myself never to cross you." She scowled at him, but the gesture didn't run nearly as deep as her hatred for the man she was still resolved to catch. Killian grasped her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. "Everything will work out, Swan. There's every chance they'll see reason and drop the charges. And as for this fugitive of yours—his days are clearly numbered, so there's no sense fretting over it now."

"You're biased."

"Perhaps. But I've yet to see you fail at anything you've put your mind to. This will not get the better of you."

Emma looked at him then and truly saw him—for what may have been the first time since that damned envelope was torn open. She reached up to run her fingers through his hair and pulled him into a kiss that was not meant to merely placate him. Soon Emma was persuading Killian onto his back and looking for all the world as though she might devour him.

"So _now_ you seek to defile me—it's a tad late for that, Swan. I'm afraid I've put the entire idea behind me."

Undeterred, she lowered her mouth to his and began a downward path of her own. "Is that right?"

"Aye," Killian said, even as Emma dragged her teeth gently across his jaw. "You're a bloody minx, do you know that?"

"Mm," she purred. "My boyfriend tells me that all the time."

"A wise man, I'm sure."

She moved with maddening slowness down his neck and chest, lingering at select points that would bear her mark come morning. "He has his moments."

"Come now, Swan—there must be something you like about him."

Emma looked up at Killian with a wicked grin. "I guess you could say he's attractive—if perfect chiseled features are your thing." Killian laughed. "He's got a good sense of humor—though I'm not sure all his jokes are intentional." She lay her head on his stomach, tapping her fingers against his skin as she scrunched up her nose, contemplating his many amiable qualities. "Makes a decent omelet, now that I think about it." She smiled fully as she said, "And he seems pretty smitten with me, so I think I'll keep him around for a while."

Killian moved quickly, switching their positions and eliciting surprised laughter from Emma, who was decidedly not distracted as Killian took up where he'd left off.

Later, after they'd washed up for bed—with one of them monopolizing the sink and then the mirror (both Killian)—and after they'd argued for ten minutes about who was the worst blanket thief and who needed to keep their freezing feet to themselves for once (both Emma), after Killian had warned her to stick to her side and then inched slowly back toward her in search of warmth, ultimately finding it as the Big Spoon, Emma said more seriously, and with a voice mindful of the surrounding stillness, "He's the best friend I've ever had."

Killian kissed her neck, just under her ear, and whispered, "And you are mine."

—

_Heavy steps thundered behind him. He'd done it this time. There'd be no patient, parental talk waiting for him when he stopped running. His father's lenience had run out—possibly for good._

_There was a door in the distance, at the end of a long corridor. He would only just make it in time, as long as he didn't look back._

_He reached for the handle with hands too large to be his own—the hands of a full-grown man. Fear gripped his eight-year old heart and squeezed. This wasn't his body._

_But there was no time—his father was gaining. He wouldn't forgive Killian this time. Nor would Liam. Nor his long dead mother. Nor anyone—_

_He lunged forward, closed his fingers around the polished brass—_

_His first mistake was thinking he could escape. The second was turning around to face his pursuer, to catch a glimpse of the threat closing in on him._

_It was worse than Killian could've imagined—that face, those eyes, the snarl curling his mouth—_

_It was not his father who chased him. It was—_

Killian sat up, gasping for air.

Emma stirred at his side, her eyes half open, half dazed with sleep. "Are you okay?"

"Nightmare," was all he could choke out, though he didn't know if that was true. He couldn't recall what exactly had woken him.

"About your brother?"

"Yes." Another lie. Potential truth. He didn't know if Liam was there—a frequent visitor to Killian's subconscious, there was every chance he had been.

Emma held out her hand and Killian grasped it as though it were a lifeline tossed to a drowning man. For the first time in months, he couldn't remember what he'd dreamt. And that, more than anything else, had him staring at the ceiling well into the night.

—

The next morning, Killian was the first to wake, though he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever fallen back to sleep. If he had, it wasn't deep, and there was no rest to be taken from it. On the bright side, if he couldn't sleep, he couldn't dream.

Emma groaned at the ringing of her alarm, her arm snaking its way out from under the covers in search of the _snooze_ button. The flat of her palm met the surface of the nightstand once, twice, before touching upon its target. Then it and her phone disappeared inside her cocoon.

Killian held in his laugh as he pulled back the covers.

"Five more minutes," Emma mumbled as she tapped at the screen.

Killian snatched the device from her hands. "And five more and five more…"

She turned to him with a frown, her hair a glorious mess of tangles around her face. "Maybe I'll skip work today."

"We both know you won't."

She hugged the covers to her chest and closed her eyes. "It's cozy here."

"The bed will still be here when you get home."

Emma smiled, the way she always did—whether of a subconscious impulse or not, Killian didn't know—whenever he said the word _home_. "And where will you be?"

It was with a voice from another lifetime that he answered, "Counting the minutes until I see you again." And it hit him. Struck his awareness like a battering ram.

Déjà vu.

No, it was more than that. More than an inexplicable sensation, easily dismissed. They'd had this conversation before. Had lived these moments…

He'd been pulled from a dream that'd led to him discovering the message Alistair had left in his pocket. A clue for Killian to find. To what, he still didn't know.

And the rest. The waking up and the morning banter and Emma—these things had been real. Not part of some dream.

They couldn't have been…

He'd touched her. Had tasted her kiss. Had felt the subtle twist of nerves when she'd hesitated to leave him. When he'd wondered if perhaps what she'd wanted to tell him was the same as what he'd been holding in for so long.

Like an echo, a moment mirrored in his memory, Emma laughed, looking up at him. "Are you always this cheesy?"

"Only when I'm happy," Killian recited the line he'd said before, though whether or not he sounded like an automaton, he couldn't say.

Emma didn't have an answer for that, or if she did, it went unshared. She stayed staring at Killian for a beat and then got out of bed, turning back to kiss his cheek before she went to take a shower, her smile never waning.

The sound of running water reached Killian's ears as he moved to the bureau. But when he searched the top middle drawer, Alistair's clue wasn't there. Killian checked the rest of the drawers, his jeans from the previous day, as well as the jacket he'd worn, the top drawer of the nightstand. The marble-shaped mystery was nowhere to be found.

He glanced back at the bathroom, where the door was closed but not latched, and then crept toward the closet.

He kept it in the back, hidden from view. Mangled beyond repair, the jacket had been promptly replaced following his accident, upgraded, and never thought of again until Killian's mind decided to wreak havoc on itself.

He reached for it now, fished inside its pockets, and froze as his fingers brushed against a hard, round surface.

Marked by a combination of colors—whorls of amethyst and turquoise and jade—it sat in his palm with the weight of a manacle whose chain had no end.

—

"Say again?"

He could tell by her expression that she didn't believe him. It was a lot to process. Killian didn't fully understand it himself. Which was why he'd sought the advice of the only other person he knew who'd been touched by magic. Used by it. A pawn in the council's game of manipulating fate.

Well, the one other such soul with whom he was still on speaking terms.

Killian leaned forward, lowering his voice as he repeated, "I'm experiencing time out of order."

"Yeah, that's...not a thing."

Recognizing his frustration for what it was and who it was really directed at, he refrained from snapping at Charlotte, even as she grew more disbelieving with every question he asked, every statement he made. "What do you know about premonitions?"

"You're clairvoyant now, too?"

"No—"

"Kind of late in game for that kind of revelation, don't you think? When did you first notice you had the Gift?"

"Be serious."

"Be _realistic_." Charlotte looked around to see if anyone else had welcomed themselves to the conversation. When satisfied that their privacy remained intact, she said, "I mean, I've seen a lot of weird shit in the last six months, but time out of order? Seeing into the future? Kind of beyond the scope of what we do, isn't it? Or _did_ , in your case."

She was right, of course. But that didn't change the fact that something was happening to him. Something unnatural.

"I can't explain it," Killian said, then attempted to do just that.

When Charlotte was caught up, she sat quietly absorbing everything Killian had told her. From the dreams that didn't feel like dreams, to the sequence of events he couldn't put in order, to the strange, vaguely magical occurrences that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Like the street lamps that'd blown out on his way there. If it had only been a few, he might've shrugged it off as a malfunction—like the elevator in his building. But every lamp between his apartment and the Liar's Den had experienced the same sort of electrical _surge_ as he'd walked passed.

"Do you have it on you?"

"What?"

"This…marble thing—do you have it with you?"

After a quick survey of their surroundings, Killian pulled the object from his pocket and showed it to her.

Charlotte cut her gaze between his upturned palm and his face. "You don't know what this is?" Was it Killian's imagination or did he detect a hint of incredulity? Charlotte leaned back in her chair with a smirk. "I know something that the great and illustrious Killian Jones doesn't? I might have to savor this moment." Her mocking good cheer faded at Killian's glare and her shoulders slumped as she sat normally again. "Okay, savoring over." Then, more reluctantly, she said, "It's a memory." Before Killian had time to grimace or to curse or to say that he fucking _knew_ it but had hoped that he was wrong, Charlotte continued. "You know about…" she leaned forward despite the noise of the midday crowd providing cover to a conversation Killian had a feeling they were failing to keep inconspicuous, "…the council's vault, right?" Killian shook his head. He could venture a guess as to what it might look like, having seen some of the council's other collections. "They've got a whole stash of those." She pointed to Killian's hand, "All different sizes—depending on how much was taken, I guess."

Without warning, Charlotte snatched the marble from him and a bright flash streaked across Killian's vision, a throbbing ache forming in a part of his head he was certain only a physician could name—deeper than any headache should reach.

Then, just as quickly, the pain was gone. He looked over at Charlotte, her only response a softly uttered, "Whoa," and then at the memory that'd been returned to his still outstretched hand. Try as he might to deny it, they both knew what his sudden, overwhelming relief meant.

"I didn't know they took them from _us_. Do you think they do that to everyone, or just the really important ones? 'Cause I can think of a few things I don't need the council knowing about." Charlotte's eyes—a pale blue this afternoon—widened with revelation and she placed her hands on the sides of her head as if to keep its secrets from spilling out. "You don't think they'll see _this_ , do you?"

Killian didn't have an answer for that. Or for why Alistair had left this for him. Certainly not for Killian's gain. Probably a final taunt meant to rattle him. To rub in Killian's face what a superior being Alistair was. An innocent victim.

"How do you know all this?" _When you couldn't pass a simple exam_ , Killian had wanted to add but refrained.

With some prodding, Charlotte admitted that she'd stumbled upon the vault by accident one night when she was out past curfew. Killian wondered if this incident had any connection with the blueprints he'd seen in her sketchbook. When taken in conjunction with the questions she'd asked about _how_ Killian had gotten out, and the mentions of her sister, he felt as though he should warn Charlotte against whatever plot she was concocting. But he recognized the determination in her eyes, the longing to return home by any means necessary, to reunite with the family she'd left behind. It was the same look he'd seen in Emma's eyes when she refused to tell Killian about her son. When she'd all but kicked him out of her apartment for broaching the subject of her parents. It was the same look he'd seen in the mirror in the days after his father left, and then again when he'd lost Liam.

Charlotte went on to say that she'd touched one of the memories kept hidden by the council. Had, in fact, accidentally unlocked it, back before she'd gotten a proper handle on her magic. She described the memory as being brief—no more than a few images. Vignettes. Of a man watching his family through the window to their home, a mother and daughter whom he couldn't go to. But they were happy—at least there was some consolation in that—even if they would never know him.

"Who was the man?" Killian asked, dreading the answer.

Charlotte only looked at him.

Killian tamped down on the guilt that'd seized him. Alistair had a child. A little girl who was probably long dead by now. Born a hundred years ago.

It made no difference, even if it did explain the depth of his hatred toward Killian. Killian wasn't heartless—he sympathized, of course—but that didn't make him ready to accept responsibility for something he hadn't done.

Whoever told the council about Alistair's clandestine marriage to a client, his plans to somehow sever the council's claim on him, it hadn't been Killian.

It couldn't have been…

Killian looked to the memory in his hand. Then he asked Charlotte, "Can you unlock this one?"

She arched a brow at him. "I don't know. Seeing as how I have trouble tying my shoelaces without supervision, might be kind of a stretch."

Killian scowled, though he supposed that jab was rightly deserved.

"Give it here."

Killian hesitated before passing the memory to her, bracing himself for the moment of contact.

A mild burst of discomfort, but nothing like the last time she'd touched it, and even that was soon forgotten as the world changed around him. Gone was the din of day-drinkers. The beer-stained booths were replaced by a sleek, elegant office overlooking an atrium, the frame-littered walls traded for walls of glass, through which the Director kept watch of her workers as they scurried about like ants. And in Charlotte's place, directly opposite Killian, who now occupied a body teeming with raw magic, stood a woman. If it was right to call her that. She was ageless and ethereal. Though outwardly calm—ever graceful, never hurried—an eternal tempest lay in wait behind her golden eyes. Ready to strike down the first person to give her cause.

Killian was fresh from what the guards who'd grabbed him as soon as Alistair led him through the front gates had called _orientation_. He hadn't made it easy for them, but he'd been no match for their magic. Why he'd needed to be subdued, he didn't know—neither had it been made clear why Alistair had brought him to this place. Was a change of venue requisite for wish fulfilment?

He hadn't been woken up so much as jolted back to consciousness by the power that tore through his system like daggers ripping his flesh apart from the inside. Screams had erupted from so deep within—unconquered demons given voice as his every tortured memory was dragged to the forefront of his mind, relived a thousand times over before the transformation was complete.

Killian had never learned her name. He and the others simply knew her as the Director, which was what she preferred. He'd neither known nor cared what position she held when he was first brought before her. When she'd grinned that wolf's grin that he'd tried to remove using the _gifts_ he'd just received.

She didn't recoil, didn't so much as flinch. Didn't have much of a reaction at all, except to say, "Not the sharpest sword in the armory, are you?" with a voice smooth as honey and just as sweet. "Did you think there would be no wards in place to protect against the more…" she gave him an appraising onceover, "…disgruntled recruits?"

Killian tried for a scoff but the sound that came out of him had more in common with a growl. "Is that what you call them?"

"Indeed." She grinned again. Never a full smile. "You signed the contract of your own free will, did you not?"

Killian didn't answer. Trick. It was all a bloody trick. And he'd fallen for it.

"It's the same for everyone. After all, forcing a person's hand would be nigh on criminal. But look who I'm telling—I bet you never met a law you didn't at least _bend_ in some way. There'll be none of that here, I'm afraid." Before Killian could do anything more than glower, she went on, "There are…incentives in place, Killian. Rewards for recruits with the fortitude to go after them."

The way she said his name made him bristle. It promised a false sense of comradery, of security and quiet confidences. _Play your cards right, Killian_ , it said, _and this experience can be quite enjoyable. For all parties involved._

That unspoken voice felt like more than inference. Felt real. And it had Killian questioning what powers this woman possessed beyond those that'd been forced upon him.

"Tasks that, once performed, can reduce a person's stay."

"Sentence, you mean?"

Another grin as silence enveloped them. Killian knew she was waiting for him to ask and he hated himself for taking the bait.

"What bloody incentives?"

"Nothing too taxing. Why, even a simple pirate like yourself could manage, I'm sure."

"Anything more specific? Or did you bring me here just to waste my time?"

"I should think _time_ has just become your greatest ally." She took languid steps toward him and latched long fingers onto his coat's lapels. "Specifically, I'd like you to relay information. Anything I or the members of my council might deem…problematic."

"You want me to be your spy."

"Spy is such an ugly word, Killian. Think of it as keeping the peace. Weeding out the undesirables. One would assume a captain would know the price of mutiny only too well." She ran her hands over Killian's chest, and though he was clad in layers of leather from head to toe, her touch seared his skin. "Should you _happen_ to see any of your cohorts breaking the rules, simply pass along the details to me and I shall see it settled in as fair and just a manner as possible."

Killian considered the offer. It'd be far from the worst thing he'd ever done—indeed, informing on his fellow captives was practically saint's work compared to how he'd spent the last decade of his life.

"Do this favor for me, Killian, and I'll consider deducting a full century from your stay here."

"Make it six."

A smile tugged at her lips but she gave it no mind, content to appear amused but not overly so. Every move, every twitch of muscle, a calculation. A trap. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way. You will have to put in _some_ time with us. The most I can take off is two hundred years." She tilted her head to one side and pressed her body close to his and Killian thought for a moment that she might try to use more seductive means of persuasion. Then she turned away, maneuvering in long, leisurely strides around a desk that looked as though it'd been fashioned from glass—connected seamlessly to the rest of the transparent space. Whatever magic kept it from shattering under their weight also made the structure invisible from the outside. One could see out but others could not see in. "It's either that or agree to the full six." She paused for dramatic effect as she took a seat, her gaze still pinning him with the same superior air as a few mortal royals he'd met. "It should come as no surprise that, should you turn down this offer, it will be extended to someone else. Someone less…squeamish."

She was baiting him again. And he'd be damned if it wasn't working. Four hundred years was better than six, he knew, though it all felt like semantics at this point. When he came to the end of his sentence, he'd be grateful that this version of him had the foresight to accept, even if it turned his stomach to ingratiate himself to this woman. This council. This bloody magical hierarchy that was no better than the kingdom upon which he'd sworn his revenge.

"This offer does have an expiration, Killian. As soon as you leave this office, your official stay will begin. It's up to you how long that stay will last."

Killian put on a grin of his own, one to hide just how deep his contempt ran. "It would seem you have a deal."

The memory faded and Killian blinked against the blinding light of the present, his vision clearing of every remnant of that stark office and the woman to whom he'd leveraged his soul. Charlotte once again sat across the table from him and a fog of jubilant voices filled his ears.

"Did it work? What did you see?"

Killian downed his drink in one swallow, what'd previously sat untouched. Unremembered from the moment it'd been set before him. "Proof."

"Of?"

Alistair's right to vengence. Vindication for his every offense against Killian. Perhaps worst of all, worse than the truth of Killian's betrayal, worse than the fact that Alistair had been right about him all this time, worse than being robbed of his memories—how many more resided in that vault? What other sins had he not atoned for, for the simple fact that they were unknown to him?—was that he'd been reintroduced to someone he thought he'd escaped. Someone he now realized he never would.

"The man I really am."

—

Emma's grip on his hand tightened as they left the theater. Killian was late in realizing that it'd been to keep her balance when her shoe caught on a crack in the pavement—he turned toward her with a swiftness that belied his mounting paranoia.

"You all right there, Swan?" He tried to sound as un-rattled as possible and was certain he'd failed.

Emma smiled as she righted herself, running a soothing hand along his arm. "So? What'd you think?"

"I quite liked it."

"You're not just saying that?"

Killian gave her a sidelong glance. She'd been a little too eager to secure the best seats when they'd arrived, a little too observant of Killian's reactions throughout, and she'd looked over at him with brows raised in expectation as soon as the credits had started to roll. "This one holds special meaning for you. Doesn't it?"

Emma shrugged, then appeared to think better of being evasive. "After Neal left, I went through this phase where I questioned everything. Not just the big stuff, the did-he-ever-really-love-me stuff. The little things, too. Did I really like that song or did I like it because he introduced me to it? Was that really my favorite shirt or was I only attached to it because he gave it to me? For a while it was hard to separate the _his_ and _mine_ parts of me." She kept her eyes straight ahead. "Anyway, this movie was the first thing I remember liking all on my own. Not because of anything to do with Neal. Or who I was with him. It was the first time in a long time that something was just…mine." She smiled to herself, momentarily adrift down Memory Lane. "Letting go got a little easier after that."

Killian lifted their joined hands to his lips, pressed a kiss to the back of Emma's. "I think it's the best film you've shown me yet."

Radiant was too timid a word for the smile she gave him before she pulled him into a proper public display.

Once they took up their pace again, they didn't make it far before stopping. It was decided, as they admired the decadent array of sweets in the bakery's window, that Emma would be in charge of picking up dinner while Killian grabbed dessert, and they'd meet back at the car.

"You remember where it's parked?"

"Bright yellow is a tad hard to miss, Love."

"Not impossible," she said with enough indignation to imply that she'd misplaced the vessel on occasion. Amusement shone through her expression and Killian got the distinct impression she wanted to add a quip in the vein of, _"Plus, an old man's memory isn't the most reliable."_ Instead she gave him a quick kiss and headed for the Italian bistro just down the road.

As she walked away, the vision came crashing back to him—it was the reason he hadn't wanted to go out at all that afternoon. Why he'd wanted to barricade them inside his apartment, or hers, cut them off from society until the threat of impending doom had passed. Too many nights he'd lain awake after having seen death set another trap for Emma—and she wanted him to walk out and greet it like an old acquaintance. It was why he'd settled for a more classic film over one that'd only just hit theaters that weekend—deviations, even small ones, were the key to outwitting fate.

"Wait," Killian called as he hurried to catch up to her. "Why don't we go together?"

"Don't tell me you miss me already—it's been two seconds."

Killian reminded her that she'd been gone so often on cases lately that they'd hardly spent any time together.

Emma fought a smile. "If I'd known you were this clingy…" She shook her head and reclaimed Killian's hand, and they entered the crowded bistro side by side.

They took their place at the end of a long line and Killian settled himself in to wait for what Emma had called the _"best Italian food in the state."_

_"You've tried every restaurant in the state, then?"_

_Emma turned up her chin with a haughty all-knowingness. "Maybe I have. I was quite the world traveler in my day." She glanced at Killian from the corner of her eye and he couldn't help thinking, all playfulness aside, that she looked almost regal when wearing that expression._

Standing with her now, even in so cramped a space, Killian was glad she'd convinced him to leave the apartment—there was no sense moping about. No problem was ever solved by worry alone. Emma rested her head on his shoulder and Killian exhaled a deep breath—the one he'd been holding in since the first time he'd stirred from sleep soaked in a cold sweat, trembling from terror. Uncertain of his surroundings and questioning if what he'd just seen had really happened.

In this moment, pressed in on every side by strangers, enveloped by the accompanying clatter characteristic of such a crowd, Emma was safe. They were together. Some distant, tormented dream couldn't touch them here—

Emma tensed beside him, her eyes darting to the far end of the dining room.

"What is it, Love?"

Despite the din of voices, Emma spoke just above a whisper. "Do you see that guy? The one in the tan blazer?"

"Aye."

"That's the guy who did this." She pointed to a diagonal line that spanned from the base of her left clavicle to just above the collar of her shirt. One of the cuts that had yet to fully heal. With every day that passed, it looked more and more as though it might scar.

Without further discussion, Emma broke off from Killian's side, moving quickly but stealthily through the sea of bodies blocking her way.

"Swan, wait—" Killian called, but she wasn't to be stopped.

The man in the tan blazer spotted her before she'd completed her approach, shooting up from his seat and making a beeline for the door. Emma followed him out and the next thing Killian knew, he was turning circles on the pavement outside the bistro, searching the perimeter for any sign of them. The chill down his spine called him a fool, the pinch at the base of his neck, a right fucking idiot for acting against his instincts.

A honked horn in the near distance triggered something inside him—something primal. With no idea where Emma had run off to, with no more than vague cosmic signs, Killian heeded the disgruntled sounds of traffic. Another horn, a shouted curse, the _crunch_ of fenders colliding—each of these turning his blood to ice as he weaved his way through the maze.

He froze in place, paralyzed by a fear so terrifyingly familiar it had to be true—truer than the voice of reason demanding he get a grip on himself. Insisting nothing was wrong. That he was the only troubling part in this equation. The variable that didn't fit—as he watched the final puzzle piece move into position.

The car careened across the lanes without a care for collateral damage. Headed straight for an unsuspecting woman—hands on her hips, frustration furrowing her brow, her blonde hair tossed haphazardly across her shoulders by intermittent gusts of wind.

Killian heard his own voice as though it belonged to someone else. Distant. Detached. Swallowed up by the chaos. All he saw was Emma. And he knew he'd be too late.

Time slowed to a crawl—

Killian felt every moment with acute anguish as he commanded his feet forward, as they refused to comply. As Emma, realizing she was in the direct path of destruction, tried to run.

—and then it stopped.

The world went silent, still—such unearthly quiet—as fire flooded Killian's veins, as a raging pulse awakened inside him, starting at his heart and tearing outward toward his limbs. Unbridled power bounded forth from the dawn of another world, a dark, unnumbered age. One that existed before time, when magic ruled without restraint. When it'd gone by another name.

Killian blinked, feeling as though he'd awoken from a dream. But this time he knew he hadn't. He was more awake, more clear-minded than he'd been in months. Like something inside him had finally snapped into place. Something that'd been subdued, caged, held on a leash. Something that had, at long last, broken free.

When he looked up, Emma was on the ground—uninjured from what he could tell. The car had toppled onto its side far from where she lay. Killian hastened to her side, inspecting every inch of her to confirm that she was indeed all right.

"Are you okay?" He knelt beside her, the tremor in his voice not simply from relief.

"Fine. I'm fine," Emma said, looking around at the scene. Killian pulled her into an embrace and reminded himself to breathe. "Someone must've pushed me out of the way."

He helped her to her feet, scanning her features again, on the hunt for any indication that she hadn't escaped wholly unscathed. But the only marks he found were the fading traces of her altercation with the same bail jumper over two weeks ago.

"I'm okay, I promise."

Emma touched her hand to the side of his face, a soothing caress that did little to calm him. She tried for a bright smile, solely for Killian's benefit. If he hadn't already known, the fact that he didn't deserve her would've made itself apparent in that moment. She was more concerned with his well-being than her own, and she was the one who'd almost—

"Looks like you're not the only one who's good at surviving," she said.

Killian forced a smile that he was certain didn't reach his eyes.

—

Killian was eight years old when he learned how his mother died. Why he didn't have a single memory of her.

Though his father and Liam spoke in hushed tones, the sound had carried through the tiny hut the three of them had called home. Perhaps they were confident in Killian's being asleep, or they didn't trust his ears to distinguish their whispers from the wind rattling the shutters. But every word rang out, clear as though they'd been meant for him.

_"You wouldn't trade your brother for the chance to have her back…would you?" This question from their father sounded in tone, if not sentiment, like a plea for Liam to say yes. That it might absolve the elder Jones of shame at feeling similarly._

_"No, of course not," Liam answered without hesitation. If there was one good thing to be taken from that night, it was the knowledge that his brother did not regret him. Could not begrudge his existence, despite what he'd lost the day Killian came into the world. "Only it's getting harder to remember her."_

_"Where do you suppose you got those lavish curls, eh?" The cot shifted under him and Killian envisioned his father mussing Liam's hair. "And Killian's blue eyes—those were hers, as well."_

_Their father's attempts at lightening Liam's mood had little effect. Killian heard the heavy sigh leave his brother, imagined his shoulders slumping as he said, "Was it long…after?"_

_A sigh to mirror Liam's and then, "No. No, it was over rather quickly once Killian…once your brother was born."_

_"Did she suffer?"_

_Brennan Jones was quiet for a long time—it was a wonder Killian's pounding heart didn't drown out the thunder of a passing storm. "That I could not say."_

To this day, Killian couldn't justify what he'd done. All his eight year old heart had known at the time was a guilt it didn't know how to soothe, and an overwhelming resentment blocking out every rational thought that told him a man could value his son and still mourn a love that was lost to him.

He'd taken a final look at the glass figurine set upon a shelf above the hearth. Its place of honor for as long as Killian had lived and his mother had not. For the first time, he'd beheld the creature—a mermaid of all things. His mother's favorite, he'd been told—with contempt. He snatched it from its shelf, stalked out into the last dark hour before dawn, and to the cliff's edge overlooking the ocean.

What he hadn't known—what he hadn't thought to consider—as he tossed the last of his mother's possessions to the rocks below was the punishment Liam would accept in his stead.

He could still hear his brother's voice taking the blame for what Killian had done. Could still hear the echo of his father's wrath, against which the roar of the tide could not contend.

His phone vibrated with a text that Killian couldn't quite make out. The words no better than blurs on the screen, unable to breach the barrier of his self-loathing as he stood outside a door no different from any other in this world. Save no mortal could open it.

This was precisely the sort of predicament that Liam would've prevented. If he'd but been there when Alistair had extended an offer Killian would've been wise to refuse, he would not be in this mess now.

But Liam wasn't there. And Killian was to blame.

He'd provoked him into carving that line across his arm with a poisoned branch. _Medicine_ , the king had called it.

Sometimes Killian was glad of it—not that his brother had met such an untimely and undignified end. But that Liam had not witnessed his descent into darkness. Sometimes he thought, if Liam _had_ but been there the night he'd wished away whatever future he might've had, perhaps his life would not have turned out this way. Perhaps _he_ would not have turned out this way. If Liam had been there, he'd have talked Killian out of taking a charlatan like Alistair at his word. But if Killian had turned down another path, if he'd gone to the tavern that night with his crew instead of seeking forgiveness from a falling star, he never would've met Emma.

As much as he missed his brother, as much as Liam's absence was still a gaping hole in his heart these three hundred years, as much as Killian would give anything to have Liam back, have him happy and whole and _alive_ , he couldn't imagine a life without Emma.

He would regret the part he'd played, but never her. Never the time he'd spent getting to know her. Breaking down her walls. He imagined them slamming back into place once her memory of him was gone and she became once again the Emma she was when they first met.

Staring ahead at the portal door, Killian knew himself to be no better than the man who'd left her ten years ago. Set her up to take the fall for his crime. Promised her a future and a home and then ripped those dreams away.

If Killian's suspicions were true—if that nagging voice he could no longer ignore belonged to reason and not his own self-hatred, if it spoke the truth and did not simply prey upon his insecurities when it told him he wasn't worthy of the life he wanted more than he'd ever wanted anything…

In three hundred years he'd never…

If he was not, in point of fact, free—had he ever truly believed he could be? Had he been led so astray by his feelings, by indulgence, that he'd thought for a second it was acceptable to drag Emma down with him?—then he will have committed the worst crime any lover could. If this door opened, Killian would be no better than anyone who'd ever let her down. He will have shown himself for a peddler of false hope. Of abandoned promises and broken trust.

He will have offered her a life that was never his to give.

His legs were leaden as he approached, his hand like a foreign entity as it stretched forward, his fingers closing around the polished brass. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled.

The door didn't budge.

He felt the tension leave his grip as a wave of relief washed over him—no, it was more than that. It was elation and euphoria and anticipation all at once. Whatever sorcery had set its sights on him, he'd sort it out later. This was the confirmation he'd needed. The assurance that he had been liberated from—

A soft _click_ sounded inside the lock but it might as well have been cannon fire for how quickly, how readily Killian's ears picked it up—for the way it resonated to the very core of him.

The text he'd received from Charlotte, what'd previously refused to register in his mind, did so now, the words revealing themselves in sudden, stark clarity as Killian pulled back on the handle a second time and the door to his designated portal opened.

**_Something's wrong._ **


	16. (15)

He hadn’t quite believed it when he’d been told.  In light of recent failings, it’d seemed too good to be true.  Like being rewarded for a job poorly done.

He’d heard what happened to guides who weren’t cut out for the business of wish-fulfillment.   _Deactivation_  had an ominous sound to it, he’d always thought.  As did  _Termination_.  Not once had he dared to hope that,  _“You’re being let go,”_  could be synonymous with,  _“You’re going home.”_

But there he stood, outside the only home he’d ever known, watching smoke rise from the chimney to paint swirls in the chill evening air.  Fresh, unfiltered,  _free_  air.  He breathed deeply, savoring these moments that were solely his own.  There was no one there to dictate how long he could stay.  Or to tell him he was standing, breathing,  _blinking_  wrong.  No one to witness the single tear roll down his cheek, except for the trees and their autumn leaves, and he welcomed them to watch.

Across the footpath, beyond the gate he’d fashioned by his father’s side, up the narrow path lined by dormant shrubs he hadn’t wanted to plant, a door opened with a creak of hinges.  Out ran a young girl, not a minute older than she’d been when he’d left, her mop of auburn curls bouncing with each step—behind her wobbled her brother, still uncertain of his feet.  Their laughter warmed his heart as nothing else could, in this or any world.

_“Go to them,”_  a voice softly sang.   _“They’re waiting for you.”_

The crunch of earth underfoot was like music to his ears as he neared that quiet cottage at the edge of the Forest.  His wife waved from the open door with a smile as warm and welcoming as the scent of his favorite meal wafting toward him.  His name had never sounded as melodic as it did coming from her.  It suddenly felt like a hundred years since anyone had known it.

_“You’re doing well, Harrold.  Just a little farther.”_

His chest tightened with anticipation—it ached at the sight of his family.  He’d been so long away he’d started to fear he might forget the way back.  But he’d walked these paths his whole life.  They were as familiar to him as the color of his children’s eyes.  The dimples in their cheeks.  The echo of their excitement as they raced down the road to greet him.

“Papa!”  They called to him and his heart skipped a beat.  He didn’t remember the last time—

Yes.  He did.  It was the day he’d left them.  The day he’d given up.

The day he’d made a wish to be released from the burden of creditors coming to call, of the disappointment in his wife’s face when rationing their meals, stretching them just thin enough to soothe hunger’s pangs.  Of the line they walked between  _at least we have each other_  and  _we won’t survive another winter like this._

The laughter that’d comforted him moments ago now rang hollow.  A vain imitation of the sound that’d kept him struggling, kept him strong.  Kept him ashamed.  Their faces were no more than shadows.  The sights and scents that’d calmed his spirit now turned his stomach to knots.

_“Go to them, Harrold.  They’re waiting for you.”_

“They’re not real,” he said to that voice—in his mind but not his own.  “None of this is—”

The last thing he felt before the world went dark was pain.  A short, blunt burst of anguish—so deep, so all-consuming—the severity of which he’d not experienced in his mortal life.  Or his immortal one.  A degree of torment so acute as to send his body into a protective state of shock.

But before that burst was complete, Harrold knew—not thought, there hadn’t been time enough for that; some instinctual part of him was horrifyingly aware of the fact that this was a dream from whence he would not wake.

And another fleeting part of him, as short-lived and razor-sharp as that final, torturous jolt, was grateful he’d gotten to see them one last time.

 

—

 

Charlotte Sawyer was no stranger to disappointment.  Even before she turned the handle, she knew she’d reached another dead end.  Had wasted a full night she could’ve spent sleeping.  But she wasn’t about to be bested by another dust-encrusted storeroom with no doors save the one through which she’d entered.

With a few strokes of her pen, she added the discovery to her sketchbook and looked over the design that’d slowly but steadily grown in the months since her wish.

The largest vault was at the center.  Hallways branched off from it like legs on a spider, each leading to another vault that splintered into yet more hallways, and the pattern continued until their inevitable ends: vacant rooms, supply closets whose resources had never been sufficiently tapped, or passageways that led Charlotte invariably back to the start.

It’d taken nearly a year to map and less than an instant to lose a solid portion of the hope that’d sprouted alongside each new line.  Her shoulders slumped as she stared down at the rotted fruit of her labor.

A maze.

Around and around it went.  And so had she.

She allowed herself a moment to wallow in defeat.  But only a moment.  Any longer and she’d be overcome.  She refused to believe that there wasn’t some way out of there.  Or that she wouldn’t find it.  She would not permit herself to be swallowed up by the fear that she might get caught before her search was complete.

Charlotte removed the satchel from her shoulder, knelt beside it on the stone floor, and dropped her sketchbook inside.  As she moved to fasten the satchel’s clasp, her gaze landed on a spot of discoloration in the bricks where her steps had disturbed a thick layer of dirt.  Wiping the area with her hand revealed what looked to be letters.  In a language no longer spoken in the Enchanted Forest, or any of its outlying realms, for more centuries than Charlotte could be bothered to count.

She’d had lessons as a child, but hadn’t paid the best attention.  Ever distracted by something shiny, something out of place.  Even the slightest chance for adventure had the advantage over sitting in a study filled with dusty old books, being taught by an even dustier old woman about the lives and trials of people long turned to dust themselves.   _“You never know when it might prove useful,”_  her mother had said in a singsong and still somehow stern voice that had Charlotte grumbling as she plopped down in her seat, her sister laughing from just outside the door—funny when it was Charlotte and not her being force-fed an education she would’ve gladly traded for a day at the beach.  There was all the time in the world for learning dead languages, but the sun would only shine for so long.  Bright and beautiful days were  _made_  for young souls like Charlotte to while away.  Couldn’t they put off lessons just this once?

Her mother never caved to such arguments, no matter Charlotte’s persistence.  Her father, on the other hand…

He’d wait for a day when their mother was away on important business and therefore couldn’t scold him for encouraging frivolity in their children before he’d whisk them off on an adventure—most often this amounted to truffle hunting in the Forest, or visiting the farm where he’d lived as a boy.  Charlotte was certain he’d intended these daytrips as lessons-in-disguise, meant to instill appreciation for hard work and perseverance and believing in one’s dreams and all that.  But she was grateful for the fresh air, however she’d come by it.

“Twist…” she said as she ran her fingers over the lettering—what appeared less and less like a choice made by the facility’s builders and more like a hastily carved cry for help.  “Coil…”  The translation was on the tip of her tongue, the edge of a neglected memory—“Turn!”  She lowered her face nearer the floor and blew a bit more of the dirt away.  “Turn…back to…” She came to a word she didn’t recognize, one she’d never learned, never tried to, and stared at it as though the engraving would bow to her will.  When it didn’t, she moved on.  “Forward,” the final grouping of letters read.  “Turn back to…forward.”

Charlotte brushed away more of the surrounding grime, that the floor might yield some context for this inscription, and in so doing uncovered a keyhole.  Small, caked with dirt, but unmistakable.  Her fingers crawled outward in pursuit of a frame—belonging to a trapdoor, perhaps?  A hatch?  The entrance to a portal that would transport her to the realm of her choosing?  Charlotte doubted it, but she couldn’t deny the spark of excitement, like the last ember of a dying flame, refusing to be put out. But all they touched upon were more bricks, coated in more decades’ worth of dirt.

_Turn back to (go?) forward._

Charlotte peered over her shoulder at the door she’d left open, but no immediate revelation came to her.

Sitting back on her heels, she checked the time on a pocket watch she’d found at the base of a decorative urn in the center vault.  One she may or may not have knocked off its pedestal by accident, and which may or may not have now been a decorative pile of broken shards.  Dawn was fast approaching, and with the time it would take to retrace her steps, she’d be late for inspections—and there were few things more damning than an empty bed.  The questions wouldn’t stop with, “Where were you?”  Or, “How did you override the system, fool the scanners?”, “What forbidden magic have your instructors taught you?”  But would seek out the reasons  _why_  Charlotte was away from her room,  _why_  she’d broken curfew to wander the compound at night.  Why she wanted freedom from the people who fed her, sheltered her, protected her from all manner of harm.  What could she possibly want that the council could not provide?

There was no telling what they would do if they had any inkling of what she’d been up to.  Skipping lessons, sneaking into restricted areas.  Hoarding magical objects she’d found in that center vault.  Seeing as guides didn’t receive wages for their centuries of hard work, and she’d need something to barter with once she got free—and she  _would_  get free—she figured it was only fitting that that  _something_  come from the people who’d ripped her from her home in the first place.

She returned the watch to the inside pouch of her satchel and stood, putting off her explorations for another time.  Strange how infinite it was in this realm and yet there never seemed enough to accomplish much of anything with the minute-by-minute schedule that kept all recruited guides occupied, beginning with morning inspections and ending with Lights Out.

The hallway she’d followed that night was darker than the others.  And was host to more cobwebs and shadowy creatures that scurried between her boots.  Most of the doors she passed now—previously examined and found to have no escape potential and therefore no value to Charlotte—didn’t come to a complete close, but hung from their frames by one splintered piece of moth-eaten wood.

Charlotte imagined they’d been quite something once, despite their present decay.  These hallways and the chambers they abutted were the only traces of color in the whole compound.  Inlayed with gold and outlined by intricate mosaics, they reminded Charlotte of something better suited to an enchanted castle.

After a final sweep of the center vault— _library_  wasn’t the best term, though it housed more books than anything else.  Stacks upon stacks that towered high above Charlotte’s head.  Far too many for their shelves to hold.  There were magical relics as well, remnants of a forgotten age, an uncharted realm.  Gilded mirrors and compasses that had no regard for true north, slippers made of glass and puppets made of wood—Charlotte checked her reflection in a silver vanity tray to ensure that her glamour was still in place, and headed for the exit.

It was magic she wasn’t supposed to know.  Not at her level.  Recruits were restricted to a finite number of basic spells, and changing from one person into another was not on the list.  With the passing of time and the granting of wishes and the completion of tasks designed to test a guide’s trustworthiness, new skills were unlocked—like in those electronic games her first and only client had so admired.

But patience had never been Charlotte’s strongest suit.  She couldn’t afford to move up the ranks at the glacial pace of her predecessors if she ever wanted to see her sister again.  She’d once asked Mr. Jones— _Killian_ —how long it’d taken him to master the more advanced magic, and his answer had not soothed her mounting anxiety.   _“I shadowed Alistair for the first century or so—I imagine it’ll be the same for you.”_

The center vault had many doors, and Charlotte had tried each of them, but the one she faced now, the only one that connected to the main facility, was plain to the point of insult.  Where the others, even the most putrefied among them, had been ornately painted, this door’s panels were a lackluster, soul-sapping gray.  Same as everything the other side of its threshold.

As Charlotte raised her wrist to the small, square screen on the wall to be scanned, her satchel bumped against a pile of nearby books and knocked the topmost to the floor.  She knelt to pick it up but stopped just before her hands made contact with the brown leather binding.

The title was faded from age and some of the letters had been rubbed clean away.

_p…ily…E…r…fte_

A strange sensation came over Charlotte, growing stronger the longer she stared at the cover.  Something about it felt like a trap.  A relic to be wary of.  It wouldn’t have been the first item of suspect she’d come across in that vault.  The place was teeming with magic, and not all of it Light.  Not all of it worth learning, though Charlotte was tempted.  Certain objects, when touched, filled her with thoughts of revolution—of overtaking the council and usurping their control.   _One person is all it would take.  One dissident.  One wayward soul to sway the masses toward mutiny._   Some objects shaped thoughts of surrender so strong they would have her forget the reasons she’d ever broken the rules.  Some had her questioning if _they_ were mad or if _she_ was.  Those were the objects Charlotte set down and never so much as glanced at again.  But she felt their presence always.

She almost ran from that book for the simple fact that it called to her.  Spoke with a mother’s soft lilt and echoed like a father’s hearty laugh.  Charlotte’s eyes burned with unshed tears as she reached forward, eager for any shred of the family she’d lost.

The visions it showed her were worse than any she’d thus seen, and Charlotte recoiled from them like she’d been bitten.  She couldn’t say with complete conviction that she hadn’t been.  She left the book where it lay, discarded in a carpet of dust, and hurried back through the plain gray door and the cold, quiet corridors, and tucked herself beneath the covers of a bed that wasn’t hers, in a place she didn’t belong, and dreamed of a home wholly untouched by tragedy.

 

—

 

_This is a problem_ , Charlotte thought as she peered across the mattress at her latest mistake.  A gentle snore parted the lips she shouldn’t have kissed, hair she shouldn’t have run her fingers through lay like golden waves across his serene face, muscles of a back she shouldn’t have gripped, shouldn’t have pulled forward in response to his whispered,  _“Are you sure?”_  were cast into greater definition by the manufactured morning light.

She had been sure, the night before.  When consequence seemed such an abstract concept.  When she’d felt impervious to its touch, beyond its reach.  When all that’d mattered was the look in his eyes and the ache in her chest and the need to make the past eight months disappear.

She was no match for it now that she’d fallen asleep in his room.  In his bed.  Three floors, five corridors, and thirty-nine steps, precisely, from where she should have been—safely secured under the covers of the middle cot in a row of five identical, housed in barracks no bigger than her closet back home.  Had she missed inspections again?  Had she been found absent without authorization?  Now, as she slipped into her clothes from the previous day, words that’d held no sway over her better sense made her stomach turn over with regret.  Words like  _morally questionable, prohibited, twice her age, instructor—_

“Where are you going?”

Charlotte kept her back to him as she pulled on her boots.  “Recruit, remember?  If I’m caught in this part of the facility—”

“I’ll just tell them I summoned you for an early lesson—”

“And how will that look?”

“Like favoritism, I imagine.”

“Like something they need to look into.”

“You’re being paranoid.  Come back to bed.”

Charlotte crossed the room—quaint by the standards of her former life, but larger than what the lower ranks received.  There was even a window.  It didn’t matter that it was fake; Charlotte had spent an hour staring at it while Noah had slept, in the vain hope that she might see a familiar cluster of stars.

She’d gotten used to them.  And to the streams of light that poured into her room through slits in the curtains.  She’d gotten used to fresh air and privacy and the freedom to breathe—as thoroughly and deeply as she’d ever been inclined.  She’d gotten used to knowing what day it was, and counting minutes with pleasure, not dread.

She had started to feel like her own person again.  Like a person at all and not just a pawn.  Then her stupid client had to go and finalize that stupid wish like the stupid, trusting mortal all of them once had been.

There were no windows in the training center.  Or in the warren of corridors between the training center and the dining hall, the dining hall and the lecture halls.  Nor in those that led to the restricted areas—strictly off-limits to low-ranking recruits like her.  None in the whole of the facility that Charlotte had ever seen, and she’d seen more than most.

Guides went to bed because their overlords said it was night.  They awoke because the glow of artificial fires told them it was a new dawn.  But other than the council’s word—final, absolute, unquestioned—there was no evidence to suggest it couldn’t just as easily have been midday.

The oval cutout in Noah’s ceiling was the only semblance of  _outside_  she’d seen.  Displaying a mock sun in the morning, moon and stars in the eve, it was the closest to comfort Charlotte had come during her time there.

“It’s not like you have anything to lose if we’re discovered.   _I’m_  the one who’s expendable here.”

“Not—”

“I’ll see you later,” Charlotte cut him off before he could make the moment more awkward by tagging a  _“to me,”_  onto that sentence.

She didn’t have any delusions regarding the feelings he might’ve had.  Or  _didn’t_.  She’d known what she was signing up for when she’d initiated that first instance of actionable contact.  That brush of her hand against his during her afternoon lesson, which had grown to loaded gazes across the training center and stolen kisses in an empty stairwell that Noah swore was in an un-monitored area.

His door sealed behind her with a vacuum-like sound, and Charlotte was halfway down the corridor when she remembered her glamour—not a moment too soon, it turned out.  A split-second after the spell’s glare had faded, a guard turned the corner and headed her way.

“Morning,” he said as he passed.  Not a hint of suspicion to be detected.

“Morning,” Charlotte replied, trying not to sound too pleased with herself at having found a way to fool her captors—with magic  _they_  had given her.

But the self-satisfied smile fell from her face when she heard a voice behind her say, “Good morning, Lieutenant.”  A chill quickly followed, turning her spine to ice.  She wasn’t sure if her feet still moved or if it was the walls around her, passing in slow motion.

She turned around—careful not to spin and certain she’d failed.  What was the protocol for this situation?  Did she bow?  Salute?  Would a nod of acknowledgement be enough to spare her the ensuing wrath if she got it wrong?

The Director was beautiful in a way that made erstwhile mortals like Charlotte resemble the pigs her father used to keep—mud covered and slop-fed, snorting little creatures only suitable for one regrettable purpose.  But if it was her true face or one conceived of over a millennia of magical dominion, Charlotte couldn’t say.  She imagined a sorceress of the Director’s caliber could wear any face she wanted.  And could, undoubtedly, see through the masks constructed by others.

She stood before Charlotte, silently appraising.

What her name was, no one seemed to know.  Charlotte had assumed this to be a ploy on the Director’s part to add an air of mystery to herself, but seeing her now, up close—too close—it was clear that she had no need of games to make herself  _more_.  Mysterious, dark, captivating.  With one glance, Charlotte was both terrified and enthralled, wanting to run for dear life—run straight into a wall if it meant she’d be spared that unforgiving stare, those eyes rimmed with gold and flecked with malevolence—and wanting never to leave the smile that sank its warmth like marrow into her bones.

“You…” she said with a voice that was at once salt and salve to wounds Charlotte didn’t remember receiving, “…are not where you should be.”

With these words, the enchantment was broken.  Charlotte swallowed against a dry throat, resisted the urge to wipe her palms, suddenly slick with sweat, against her uniform.  Excuses crowded her mind, each rallying for first place in line at the slaughter.  “I—”

“Sector forty-seven, is it not?”  Her eyes drifted to the badge at Charlotte’s chest.  “Scarlet.”  She studied Charlotte with a gaze that seeped into the deepest recess of her soul.  “I remember you.  You came to us from the Enchanted Forest.  Fell into a frozen lake outside your family’s cottage.”

Having no clue if this was right or if she’d just stumbled blindly into a waiting snare, Charlotte acted on instinct, and before she could stop herself, before she could think of any other way to respond, she’d curtsied—shoulders back, head bowed, the way her mother had taught her to address the members of magical society.   _It’s better to flatter than to offend,_  she’d warned.

_Fuck_.  That was wrong.  Idiotic.  The sort of inane, knee-jerk behavior that’d gotten her sister in trouble—always rising to Charlotte’s defense, even when a sound lashing was rightly deserved.

A full minute passed, during which Charlotte felt the weight of more lifetimes than she’d lived, before the Director spoke again.  When she did, it was with a slight grin.  “You wished that your brother be spared suffering at your impending loss of life.  Will, I believe, was his name.”

Every sentence, every inflection, felt like the final piece of a trap locking into place.  What if Charlotte said yes and the person she’d chosen to impersonate didn’t have a brother, or she did but he went by another name?  What if she hadn’t nearly drowned at the bottom of a frozen lake?  What if Charlotte had already showed her hand and was bound for an untimely termination?  Much less gentle—though undeniably earned—than the one Killian Jones had secured for himself?

She blinked back tears she hadn’t needed to conjure.  Hadn’t needed to fake.  And let them be her answer.

The Director seemed satisfied—not that Charlotte knew her well enough to say with any certitude.  Only that the intensity of her stare had lessened until it felt safe, if not advisable, to breathe.

“And how are you finding your wish’s fulfillment?”

Charlotte didn’t know Penelope Scarlet.  She’d made it a point not to know anyone.  But if her wish had gone remotely similar to Charlotte’s, there was bound to be a twist she hadn’t foreseen.  Perhaps her brother had been the one to drown in Penelope’s place as the council’s way of sparing him the pain of his sister’s passing.

“I’ve found guiding others toward their Happily Ever Afters to be immensely rewarding.”

The Director cocked her head to the side—slowly, methodically, like a predator sizing up its prey.  Deciding how best to devour her.  “I’m pleased to hear it, Scarlet.”

She lifted her chin in what Charlotte understood to be dismissal, and Charlotte walked away.  She hoped.  She couldn’t quite tell if her feet had picked up their previous pace, if the distance between her and her puppet master had increased by any measurable distance. Only that soon Charlotte stood at corridor’s end, faced with the decision to turn left or turn right—but which was the appropriate route for Penelope Scarlet to take?

All she knew was the urge to run.  The need to escape that’d spawned eight months’ worth of sneaking around in shadows and adopting an identity not her own.  She had yet to be caught, but she sensed the council’s awareness gaining traction, like a dark figure stalking her steps.  Waiting for her to leave a door unlocked so it could slip inside.  The Director’s arrival—sudden, unannounced—was confirmation that time was no ally, as she only ever made an appearance anymore when someone was scheduled for deactivation.

Charlotte choked down the bile rising in her throat as she turned left.  Knowing she wouldn’t make it back to the barracks in time, she barricaded herself inside the first room she came to, fell to her knees, and heaved the contents of her stomach onto the floor.

 

—

 

“It was a bleak time, empty of promise, devoid of hope,” Mr. Heller delivered this morning’s lecture in the same manner as every other.  Under his tutelage, Charlotte had learned exactly one thing: there had, according to exhaustive tomes combed through and collected by the council’s many scribes, never, in any time period in this or any world, been a blissful, peaceful, or otherwise non-depressive era by which to punctuate the darkness.  “Evil reigned supreme, ever triumphant against the few glimmers of rebellion that stood against its tyranny—unwavering in the face of crushing defeat.”  Mr. Heller paused for dramatic effect, his mouth quivering with the gravity of his performance.  “It wasn’t until one fortuitous day, when magic was bestowed upon a few worthy mortals, that the fate of the realms was saved.”  He paused to gauge his audience. Noting the profound lack of interest, he tugged on the hem of his sweater—a darker gray than the windowless walls of the lecture hall, but not by much—and cleared his throat. “Moving on. If you’ll open your texts to page twenty-two. Case file three-dash-b clearly illustrates…”

Charlotte’s eyes were open—she was almost certain of it.  But no images registered in her mind as Mr. Heller droned endlessly on, dissecting the minutest details of an archived case file. Wouldn’t a simple, “Don’t do the thing,” have sufficed?  Then again, Charlotte wasn’t one to criticize, seeing as she’d never met a rule she hadn’t bent.

When shown her schedule during that first day at initiation and how many lectures she was mandated to attend throughout her career as a guide—with  _Enchanting Spells: A Beginner’s Guide to Magic, Counteracting Curses,_ and  _A Brief History of Supernatural Warfare Vol. 1_  being among the First Years’ assigned literature—Charlotte had half-expected the professors to wear robes.  But, to her dismay, Hogwarts this place was decidedly not.

She and her fellow recruits were seated in a semi-circle around what Mr. Heller had called a  _projection_.  Spectral portraits in motion, displaying a sequence of days wherein something went wrong.  Someone made a mistake, ignored orders, went rogue.  It was usually something small, something inconsequential, that Mr. Heller would use to emphasize the dire importance of following protocol  _to the letter_.  Deviations were dangerous.  They caused even seasoned guides to transgress.  Blah blah  _blah_.   _“Don’t do the thing or you will die.”_

“Miss Sawyer.”  Charlotte sat up straight as Mr. Heller’s gaze locked on her.  He stood near the wall behind the projection, arms linked at his back, and seemed to meld with the softly glowing images she hadn’t been studying.  He didn’t look like a professor—but then, neither did Killian—and his frequent departures from the course material gave Charlotte the impression he would’ve rather been doing anything else.  When he was forced to engage one of his students, he often did so with an expression of intellectual superiority that had Charlotte wondering if he’d been born looking down on the world.  “Would you please inform the class as to  _how_  Mr. Smith erred in this instance?”

Mr. Smith?  Charlotte looked at the projection, suspended in midair, fixed on a single, close-up frame of a man’s face.  This was Alistair’s file?

“Um…” was Mr. Heller asking about something specific, or did the question have broader-reaching implications?  Because there were about a dozen different areas where Alistair had  _erred_.  Charlotte was of the mind that the council was partly to blame for things ending so horrifically, but that was not an opinion for her to have here.

Her classmates stared at her, some wide-eyed and expectant, others openly relieved that they had not been called upon for analysis.  It wasn’t a large group, and none of them seemed within close range of Charlotte’s age—she couldn’t help taking this as further proof of her out-of-placed-ness.  Perhaps wishing was a last resort for those who’d lived longer than Charlotte, who’d seen more and knew more than the accumulated trivia an eighteen year span could provide.  Classes were segregated according to the dates of wishes made, but now that Charlotte thought of it, she couldn’t recall seeing anyone nearly as young in the whole facility.  Even her roommates each had at least ten physical years on her.

“Alistair—Mr. Smith, that is…he…um…” this felt like the time she’d been asked to recite the order of magical operations and had sat slack-jawed and ridiculous as every word she’d ever learned had abandoned her to embarrassment.  Given the recent surge of anti-Alistair propaganda that’d circulated the facility of late—covertly, of course, though Charlotte suspected the pamphlets to be council-approved—she figured anything disparaging would be welcomed, “…murdered…someone?”

There were a few muffled laughs and the corner of Mr. Heller’s mouth turned up with the faintest trace of a smirk.  “That is indeed true, Miss Sawyer, but you’ve skipped ahead a bit in the timeline.”  He turned to a man with peppered hair, seated at the far end of the semi-circle, and Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief when the class’ attention shifted away from her.  “Mr. Flynn, can you help Miss Sawyer pinpoint the first incident that started Mr. Smith on his descent into madness?”

Alistair had never seemed  _mad_  to Charlotte.  A bit eccentric, maybe.  A little odd—but so was Charlotte to most people.  That he could’ve  _killed_  someone—a member of the council, no less.  It didn’t fit with what Charlotte had observed.  Alistair had always been kind to her.  Somewhat distracted toward the end, but that was hardly the most damning evidence.

“Shouldn’t someone have reported his behavior before it reached this extreme?”

“Someone did,” Charlotte heard herself say in response to this question from the woman seated next to Mr. Flynn.  Her white hair was pulled back into a bun and she wore a red shawl that reminded Charlotte of one her grandmother had knitted.

_“Stop calling her ‘Grandmother.’”_

_“That’s her name.”_

_“Everyone calls her ‘Granny.’  Doesn’t mean she’s related to them.”_

Charlotte blinked away the memory of her sister’s reprimand and looked around the lecture hall to see all eyes once again trained on her.

“Oh?”  Said Mr. Heller.  “Well, don’t stop there, Miss Sawyer—can’t you see you have us riveted?  I’m eager to hear what inside knowledge you possess in regards to this case.”

“Killian Jones.”  Her voice sounded small to her own ears.  Unsure of itself in light of so many listeners.  “He reported Alistair to the council.”

“I’m sorry.”  Mr. Heller stepped through the projection, craning his neck forward.  “What was the name?”

“Killian.  Mr. Jones.  He’s a—he  _was_  an instructor here.”  She felt like she was shrinking, lessening in stature with every word uttered.  “Same as you, sir.”

Mr. Heller’s brow crinkled around his narrowed eyes.  “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with any such person, Miss Sawyer.  Perhaps you’ve nodded off again and had yourself a little dream, hm?”

“You remember him…don’t you?”  Charlotte turned toward her classmates for support, but saw only blank expressions staring back.  Looking to Mr. Heller, she said, “He warned the council that Alistair was in violation of Section Eleven of the Magical Code of Conduct, but they ignored—”

“That’s quite enough, Miss Sawyer.  There’s no need to cause a scene.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I said that’s enough!”  His voice echoed inside the lecture hall, silencing what was left of Charlotte’s protest.

The class sat quietly through the rest of the lesson, as Mr. Heller refrained from calling on them again.

 

—

 

The walls of the training center were the same dull gray as the rest of the facility.  Charlotte had lost herself to many a daydream while staring at them—much like now.  She should have been listening to Noah’s instruction, or at the very least been driven to distraction by the way his mouth moved around the emphasized syllables in  _arbitrary incantation_.  But her focus was fixed on the opposite end of a room that was empty save for them, and on whether or not she’d passed the Director’s test.

It’d been all anyone could talk about—or whisper, rather—at lunch.  The arrival of not one but seven council members to the compound.  The highest concentration to gather in one place since the discovery of Councilman Jacobs’ corpse inside Alistair Smith’s private quarters.  After his death, there weren’t more than two council members to be found on the premises at the same time.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Charlotte cleared her thoughts of the past.  And of the mysteries she couldn’t afford to get swept up in.  Noah stood before her with expectation in his arched brow—perhaps a pinch of reproach.  “What?”

“Where has your mind wandered this time?”

She had planned to say,  _“Nowhere,”_  but her mouth had other plans.  Noah took two steps toward her, voice low, eyes glinting mischievously as he leaned in.  “A little incentive to stay in the room?”  He ceased all forward momentum, however, when Charlotte said, “Do you know who’s scheduled for deactivation this afternoon?”

The corners of his mouth turned down as he tilted his head to one side.  “You know I can’t discuss—”

“You haven’t told anyone, have you?”  Charlotte’s voice dropped to just above a whisper, though the two of them were, for all appearances, alone.  “About us?”

“Would we be standing here if I had?”

Charlotte had no argument for that.  Noah had been a guide longer than she’d been alive, and if his list of friends was any longer than hers, he hid it well.  She could only conclude that if he’d told anyone, it would’ve been a superior, and if any high-ranking officers had knowledge of Noah’s extra-instructional activities with a recruit, Charlotte doubted either of them would live to see the outside world again.

Noah took her hand, gave it a light squeeze.  “Don’t you think if you were in that sort of trouble I would tell you?”

Charlotte glanced at her surroundings—devoid of all color, all life save for them—and pulled her hand away.  “I think you should consider who might be watching.”

“This room is no more surveilled than the one you snuck into last night—if the council sought to find us out, we’d be already caught.  Now,” with a finger at her chin, Noah persuaded her gaze upward until her eyes met his and leaned in close enough to steal a kiss.  Charlotte’s heart sank ever so slightly when he instead commanded her to, “Conjure an object I can hold in my hand.”

Charlotte tried to concentrate as Noah backed away, simultaneously thinking of a thousand ways she could wipe the smirk from his face, but all that appeared in his upturned palm were flickers of light that quickly fizzled.

“You  _have_  been assigned your own client, yes?  Unsupervised?”

Charlotte glared at him.  “Yes.”

His disbelieving expression told her to prove it.  So she did.

She closed her eyes and concentrated and moments later a small, blue, cooing bird appeared in his hand.  It walked the edges, tested his fingers, and looked as though it might take flight.  Noah watched it with an unrestrained smile that made it difficult for Charlotte to be annoyed.  Not impossible, but not as easy as when he’d challenged her aptitude.

Noah cursed and Charlotte held back a laugh at what her conjured object left in its wake.  “I’ll choose to believe that wasn’t your doing.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”  Charlotte winked.

The lovebird disappeared in a plume of red smoke and Noah said in an instructor’s tone—only mildly compromised, “Again.”

As his demands became more precise, so did her spells, and soon she was conjuring objects too large for any one man to hold.  The last among them: a bronze statue she’d seen on display in the Land Without Magic.  Apparently the subject was of great historical importance to the citizens there.  Or his horse was—Charlotte didn’t always pay the best attention when Killian talked.  Especially about events that occurred in a time before she was born, in a land she’d only learned existed eight months ago.

“Well done, Charlotte,” Noah said with a proud smile as he gave the statue a onceover.  “You’ve shown tremendous improvement since our last session.”

“I’ve been practicing.”  Not entirely a lie.  Not the whole truth.  She doubted  _I’ve been studying illegal spells behind your back_  would’ve been met with such high praise.

Charlotte watched him inspect the finer details of her creation, taking turns about the granite pedestal.  It was rather impressive, if she did say so herself.  A perfect duplicate.  Indeed, if it weren’t for the fact that she still struggled to transport objects larger than a teaspoon from one room to another, she might’ve worried that she hadn’t actually conjured anything, but had unwittingly stolen the statue from its rightful home.  As it was, she had the beginnings of a rather promising silverware collection stashed in a box under her cot.

Thinking about the Land Without Magic had her thinking about Killian and Mr. Heller’s strange behavior when his name was mentioned.  If she wasn’t mistaken, she would’ve sworn she remembered Killian and Noah being acquainted.

“You know Killian Jones, don’t you?”

Noah’s posture went rigid but he didn’t look away from the statue’s base for a solid minute.

“Noah?”

“Hm?”  He turned toward her with eyebrows raised.  “Did you say something?”

“Killian Jones.  You two were friends, weren’t you?  When he was a guide.”

He frowned.  “Sorry, I’m not familiar with anyone by that name.”

“You’re sure?”

The memory, what started out vague—more an impression than anything—deepened its roots in her mind.  It sharpened around an image of the two of them walking side by side down a corridor in sector four, so engrossed in conversation that they didn’t see the awestruck recruit until she was practically trampled underfoot.

_“Apologies, Love—didn’t see you there.”  The instructor who’d stood in for an absent Mrs. Mills during potions that morning closed his hand around Charlotte’s arm to help her up.  “Are you all right?”_

_But Charlotte couldn’t blame him entirely for the collision, as she too had been distracted.  “Fine.  I’m fine.  I’m…good.”  She choked out the words like she’d been magically compelled to do so, and each one tore at a throat that constricted a little more each second she remained in such close proximity to the most beautiful man she’d ever seen._

_Honey blonde hair and eyes gray as a storm—she hadn’t thought she could find the color anything less than mundane, let alone disarming.  But they tipped the slightest degree toward blue that it set them leagues apart from the off-putting stone of the facility._

_The man smiled at her, no doubt laughing on the inside at her struck stupid expression.  “Sure you’re okay?”  He held something out to her.  A book with a too-wide spine and too-small print and—_

_“Oh.”  She flushed.  “I didn’t realize I’d dropped it—thanks.”_

_“Noah,” he said.  “Are you a First Year?”_

_Charlotte wasn’t sure if she’d nodded—she meant to.  Wasn’t sure if the besotted smile had left her face._

_“I’ll see you this afternoon, then.”_

_Charlotte blinked, her mouth open but no sound escaping._

_“Elementary Conjuring?”_

_“Right!  Of course.”  Charlotte tried for a casual laugh but was sure she’d sounded anything but—she hadn’t felt less casual about anything in her entire life._

_“Right,” said Mr. Jones, who had completely escaped Charlotte’s memory, “best be off, then.  Noah?”  He nodded to Charlotte.  “Miss Sawyer.  Excellent work in potions this morning.”_

_He was surely just being polite, as Charlotte had been one dragon’s scale away from setting the lecture hall on fire.  “Thanks.”_

_“Miss Sawyer,” said Noah, sounding as though he was testing the syllables, trying them out on his tongue, developing a taste for them—_

_Charlotte inwardly cringed at how hopeful she was that this was true, and at how miniscule the chances were of an instructor being remotely attracted to her.  He was one hundred percent outside the realm of possibility._

_“Charlotte,” she corrected, taken aback by her own boldness._

_“Charlotte.”  Noah smiled.  “It was nice to meet you.”_

_Charlotte watched him walk away, book clutched against her chest, an expletive falling gracelessly from her lips as Professor Jones said something into Noah’s ear that looked a great deal like, “Don’t even think it.”  A crush was the last thing she needed right now.  What she needed was to get home.  To undo her mistake.  Fix the present, rewrite the past._

_Knowing the situation was hopeless, knowing she had no chance, that she shouldn’t_ want _a chance—he was an instructor, for fuck’s sake—didn’t keep her from being distracted through the rest of her classes as she counted down the minutes to Elementary Conjuring._

“Quite sure.”  Noah nodded then clapped his hands together.  “Shall we test your reflexes next?”  He didn’t wait for Charlotte to answer before firing off a curse for her to deflect.

 

—

 

The glass door revealed a dormitory indistinguishable from Noah’s save for the empty shelves and blank walls and the unsettlingly sterile environment they created.  It captured the hint of a reflection—more an outline than anything, a silhouette against a halo of modern lightning—and Charlotte was grateful it bore no resemblance to her true form.

It should’ve caused her some modicum of worry—the fact that Penelope Scarlet’s face felt more familiar than her own.  But it’d been so long since she’d looked anything like herself, the self her sister had known, that she was becoming more accustomed to the masks she wore than the features they hid.  Features passed down from her parents.   _“You look so much like your mother,”_  her father used to say.  It’d been these words, spoken with such reverence, that’d first triggered her ever-changing appearance.

She’d started with the eyes, believing that a simple shift from green to brown would suffice to stifle the longing deep inside.  But there was one structure in that facility that didn't lie.  The mirror showed the apples of her mother’s cheeks, the curves of ears so like her father’s that Charlotte often brought her hair forward to cover them—hair the same length as her sister’s, but their mother’s shade.  All she saw when she looked at her reflection were the ghosts she’d left behind in another life.

It hadn’t been enough to stop seeking them out.  They followed her wherever she went.  They were in the slouch her mother had worked hard to correct, in the grip of her hand around a council-supplied quill—how often had her parents lost themselves in speculation about Charlotte being left-handed when the rest of her immediate family were not?   _“I may have had an uncle…”_  her mother once had mused.

They were in the accent she’d had when she first arrived in a strange new world—that unmistakable affectation so few had where she was from.  They were in the dreams that pulled her from sleep and saw her wandering the corridors past curfew in search of a way out.  A way back to them.

They were in the small, cloying, cricket-like voice warning against what she was about to do.  She’d done it before—a hundred times before—but that was the way of things, wasn’t it?  There was always one last lie, one last con, one last wish.  And it was always the last one that went wrong.  But Charlotte needed to know if what she’d seen was real.  That it hadn’t been an illusion.  That it hadn’t been a trick.

She needed to know she wasn’t the only one who remembered him.  That history hadn’t repeated itself, this time with Killian caught in its absentminded claws.

If he wasn’t real, that meant…

Charlotte shook her head against a thought too awful to entertain.

The nameplate on the wall above the scanner read  _M. Lydgate_  where it’d previously read  _K. Jones_.  It made sense that his room would be given to someone else, seeing as he was never coming back, but after Mr. Heller’s lecture and her lesson with Noah—which had been abruptly cut short, Noah dismissing himself to attend to an urgent matter—Charlotte couldn’t shake the suspicion that something was off.

_“You’re being paranoid,”_  Noah was prone to saying whenever Charlotte questioned anything.  His method of teaching, the council’s method of recruitment.  The way the facility was organized like one of the wizarding schools she’d begged her parents to send her to, but was governed like one of the outposts she’d seen in what her client had called a  _dystopian thriller_.

_“Trust your instincts,”_  her sister was prone to encouraging Charlotte whenever she couldn’t make sense of something and yet couldn’t shrug it off as happenstance.   _“They might save your life one day.”_

And her sister would know a thing about brushes with danger.  She may have been the well-mannered one in their parents’ esteem, but she was just as hungry for adventure as Charlotte—the incident with the fire in the library when Charlotte was still learning to walk being only one of many close calls.  And Charlotte refused to take full credit for the premature grays that’d cropped up around their father’s temples.

_P. Scarlet_ was granted access to the dormitory, and the door opened with a  _whoosh_ , receding into the side wall as though it, too, had never existed. Charlotte took a slow turn about the space, but it didn’t take a thorough investigation to surmise that no trace of Killian had been left behind.

She opened the drawers on M. Lydgate’s bedside table but all she found there were a few personal effects, a few handwritten letters that would never be delivered, and a glass jar filled with hairclips.  The bed was made, and nothing had been stuffed underneath it.  The footlocker kept no secrets save for shoe size.  And there was no window—fake or otherwise—fashioned into the ceiling.

Charlotte was starting to fear she’d made him up—that he was an invented figment, conjured by her mind so she’d feel less alone.  Judging by his old quarters, even the facility had forgotten him.

She’d tried dropping his name into conversation with one of her  roommates—a recruit who’d arrived the same day as Charlotte and had gone through initiation alongside her, complete with introductory tour headed by one Professor Jones.

_“Who?”_   Ursula had asked without a hint of irony.

_“Mr. Jones.  Dark hair, blue eyes, favorite phrase is, ‘bloody hell.’”  The furrow in Ursula’s brow grew more pronounced the more Charlotte talked.  “You said he reminded you of the sailors who frequented the tavern where you used to sing…”_

_“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but my initiation was overseen by Ms. De Vil.”  She narrowed her eyes at Charlotte then grinned.  “You fell asleep in Mr. Heller’s class again, didn’t you?”_

Charlotte seated herself at the edge of the bed and closed her eyes.  Concentrated.  Imagined a flat screen and rounded edges, brightly lit display.  She called to it, summoned it.  Commanded it to come.

To her surprise—utter shock, if she was honest—when she looked down at her hand, she saw the device she’d surrendered upon her return to the facility.  Whole and functioning and awaiting her next move.

She found Killian’s name at the top of her recent activity log and tapped out a message to him.   ** _Something’s wrong._**

Short.  Simple.  To the point.  Just a  _hint_  of alarm.

She settled in to wait for a response.  One that, at the end of twenty minutes, still hadn’t come.  Charlotte reasoned that he was busy in his new life, that he and his new love were so incandescently happy that they didn’t have time for whatever adolescent drama she’d cooked up, even as some small part of her was more convinced than ever that Killian Jones was the manifestation of an overactive mind.

She got up to leave, shoulders slumped, when a shadow on the wall caught her eye.  Small and crescent-shaped and attached to what seemed to be nothing, Charlotte almost took it for a smudge of dirt.  It was only in touching her finger to it that she felt the button it betrayed.  A button that, when pressed, opened a music box-shaped cavity in the wall.  Inside the cavity was a velvet coin purse filled with jewelry.  Rings, an earring, some necklaces—skull and crossbones pendant at the end of one.  Something Charlotte had seen on a pirate once when she’d ignored her parents’ explicit instructions regarding an unaccompanied visit to the coast.  Were these  _Killian’s_?  Or did M. Lydgate harbor a past of debauchery and crimes against the crown?

Charlotte didn’t have time to ponder the possibilities as she heard voices in the corridor.  Too close to outrun.  She dropped the jewelry inside its purse, shoved the purse inside her uniform, and turned in time to see…nothing.  The excuses that’d rushed to mind dissolved as she looked out the open door to the vacant hallway beyond.

Shaking off a sense of foreboding, Charlotte retrieved her phone from the bed and closed the secret safe in M. Lydgate’s wall.  Upon exiting the dorm, she was pushed by a passing figure who didn’t offer an apology, but continued walking briskly toward a large crowd gathered a few doors down.

No one seemed to notice when Charlotte removed her glamour, nor seemed to care when she shoved her way through the bodies to a better vantage point.  She was near the front when Ursula pulled her aside.

“Don’t get too close,” she said.

“To what?  What’s going on?”

Ursula craned her head around the person in front of her, then turned to Charlotte and mouthed, “Deactivation.”

“What?”  Charlotte looked ahead, but all she saw was a woman standing inside another replica of Noah’s room.  She was slender and statuesque and her long obsidian hair melted seamlessly against a dark cloak most often worn by members of the council.  “They’ve never let us watch one before.”

“Want to make an example of this one,” Ursula whispered, taking measured glances about the crowd—which Charlotte now realized was made up mainly of recruits.  “That’s my guess.”

“Why?  What happened?  Who is it?”

Before Ursula could answer—before Charlotte could decide which question was the most pressing—the tall figure took two steps to the right, allowing for Charlotte to see a second person in that room.  Seated in a rickety wooden chair, head lolled to one side, and in possession of a dreamy, faraway look, eyes unfocused and brimming with unshed tears was Penelope Scarlet.  She wasn’t restrained—at least, not visibly—and she didn’t speak, even when spoken to.  If Charlotte listened closely, straining over the din of speculative murmuring, she could just make out the delicate timbre of a familiar voice.

“Go to him,” the Director said.  A hush fell over the on-looking crowd and it was then, in the quiet, that Charlotte was able to detect a soft, thrumming sound, repeating a steady rhythm over and over like a pulse.  “He’s waiting for you.”

“Is this real?”  Penelope asked, lips trembling around each word.  “I never thought I’d see you again.”  A tear rolled down her cheek and caught at the corner of her mouth.  “I missed you, big brother.”

She sounded utterly wrecked by what she saw—in her head, Charlotte assumed, for no one from the crowd stepped forward to greet her.  This didn’t seem like torture to Charlotte—quite the opposite.  What she wouldn’t have given to see her family again, even for so brief a time and in so fleeting a manner as a daydream.  She envied Penelope Scarlet the opportunity.  And that awed look in her eyes.

Did the council mean to eliminate the dread of deactivations that’d spread through their guides like pestilence?  Is that why they had allowed the recruits to watch this one?  Why not simply add it to the curriculum and save themselves the hassle?

“You’re almost there, Penelope.  Just a few more steps and you’ll be home.”

Penelope smiled as one tear became two.  “Home.”

Was this what everyone had been so worked up about?  Was this the great and terrible Termination that she, too, had come to fear?  Somewhere along the line, the gossips had gotten something wrong if—

Just as Charlotte was about to abandon every horrible, hateful, and otherwise untoward thought she’d ever had regarding her employers, just as the crowd had begun to breathe a collective sigh of relief, the Director walked around Penelope Scarlet’s chair and gave them all a clear view of her hand.

Inside, Charlotte realized with horror, was the origin of that pulsating sound.  It thundered now, closing in around them.  The object glowed and seemed to…beat of its own merit.  Its own strength.  If Charlotte didn’t know better she’d say it was a…

That it was…

It couldn’t be—

The Director squeezed her hand and where once there’d been a heart as purely red and unsullied as only Snow White’s was ever famed to be were ashes.  They fell to the floor like dust and the Director wiped their remnants from her skin without a flicker of disgust.

Charlotte muffled a gasp as Penelope’s body convulsed and then went completely still.  Her eyes hollow.  Lifeless.  She held trembling hands over her mouth as she and her fellows stood frozen, rooted in place, lest any one of them make the wrong move and find themselves the next occupant of that chair.

“Greenleaf!”  The Director called.  The entire group flinched.  In the empty space between her and Penelope appeared a man.  One minute unseen, unreal for all the world was aware, and the next he was as sentient and temporal as the rest of them.  Taller than any human Charlotte had ever seen, and twice as broad.

The Director waved her hand toward what remained of Penelope’s heart.

“Ma’am.”  Greenleaf nodded once, snapped his fingers, and the dust vanished as suddenly as he himself had materialized.

“Now see Miss Scarlet along the final leg of her journey,” the Director instructed.

Greenleaf turned to the chair where the body was splayed.  He reached a hand to Penelope’s eyes and closed them with surprising tenderness.  The change, though small, made a marked difference—indeed, if the position didn’t look so wretchedly uncomfortable, it could’ve been assumed that Penelope had simply fallen asleep.  Greenleaf used one arm to support her neck, the other her legs, hoisted her up against his chest, and carried her through the crowd, quickly parting to let him pass.

“Davies!”

A second man emerged in the same manner as the first, this one, Charlotte noted despite the fog of shock clouding her perception, accompanied by faint wisps of red smoke that dissipated by the time the Director waved in the general direction of her audience and said, “Handle this for me, won’t you?”

Davies nodded once, as Greenleaf had done, clicked his heels together, held his head high as though preparing to announce the arrival of the queen, and spoke in a flat, monotone voice.  “Penelope Scarlet was a traitor to this institution, to this realm, and to the very foundations upon which magic was founded.  This is the truth as it has been declared by the council.  You will go about your lessons and forget what you have witnessed here.  You will remember none of what you saw, only the indelible impression of the penalty of insubordination shall remain.”

Charlotte looked over at Ursula, expecting to read the same incredulity in her eyes that Charlotte felt in her own.  Instead she found the same wonder as in Penelope Scarlet's last expression.  A tentative glance at the others had Charlotte working hard to control her breathing.  Each of them stared straight ahead, unblinking, hanging on every word from Davies like they were under a trance.

When Davies said, “Dismissed,” the crowd dispersed, scattering like roaches come morning.  And Charlotte, mindful of every emotion that could etch itself into her features, followed suit.

 

—

 

Charlotte had always loved the rain.  Lessons, duty, good health be damned—if there was so much as a light sprinkling, she was sure to be found catching droplets in her hands, jumping in puddles, or otherwise basking in the wonder of precipitation.

She’d since learned to respect the rain and what omens it often carried.  But whatever fondness she’d once felt for it died the same day as her parents.

_“Whatever happens, know that we love you,”_   had been their parting words to her.  They’d whispered something more solemn to her sister as storm clouds cast each of them in shadow.  Something about being the head of the family in the event that their plan failed.   _“Look after Charlotte,”_  they’d undoubtedly added.  She’d scarcely been able to stomach this sentiment when they were alive, for it most often walked hand-in-hand with their lack of faith in her ability to behave.

_“Do look after Charlotte, darling, you know how she gets.”_

She could scarcely think of it now without a lump forming in her throat.  She was a petulant child, she knew.  An obstinate one.  Headstrong and stubborn and not one to bend to any will but her own.  She would’ve given anything to have the time back.  To have a chance to do better.  To show her parents that their convictions had not fallen on un-listening ears.  Their affections on a hardened heart.

_“Whatever happens, know that I love you,”_   Noah had said when Charlotte told him all she had done.

The sneaking around, the lying, the illegal spells.  Traipsing around the compound disguised as someone else, and the price that Penelope Scarlet had paid in her stead.

He’d tried to assuage her guilt by saying she wouldn’t have done any of it had she known the cost, but Charlotte wasn’t convinced.  She’d know there would be  _some_  sort of comeuppance, hadn’t she?  And that deactivation was the most probable—but she’d expected the consequences to fall on  _her_.

_“I love you, too,”_   she’d said at the end of a soft kiss.  She hadn’t realized how true it was until she’d given it voice—but saying it  _now_?  After all she’d confessed, after what she’d just seen.  Somehow it felt like a goodbye she’d never recovered from.  She was forever standing under the shade of a hollowed out tree, holding her sister’s hand as their parents disappeared on the horizon.

A low chime sounded and Noah got up to answer the door with an expression that belied his reluctance to leave her alone, even for the short time it would take to thank the attendant for his after-hours order.  Charlotte stayed seated on a small wooden chair next to a small wooden table, grateful for the partition that hid her from corridor’s view.  The layout of Noah’s quarters may have been the mirror image of Killian’s, but Noah had been afforded amenities that even Killian, in his good standing with the council, had not.  Among them, private access to a washroom all his own, which he’d let Charlotte use to collect herself before he’d asked for an explanation.  When the time had finally come, his request hadn’t been a demand, but a plea.   _Please tell me what’s wrong.  Let me help you._

Thinking of it now, of the sympathy in his eyes where she’d expected condemnation, made some small, forsaken part of her ache.  Made her want to accept his declaration unreservedly.   _Whatever happens, know that I love you._

She heard the door close just as Noah rounded the partition and set a serving tray on the table beside her.  A porcelain pot and a cup to match, steaming with freshly brewed tea.  At the center of the tray was a plate of wafers—vanilla if she had to guess based solely on the white of their crusts.  Charlotte was tempted to reach for one, just to have something to occupy her hands.  Something to grate her teeth against.

Noah knelt on the floor in front of her, brushed the wet hair back from her shoulder.  “You’ve had a long night,” he said as he rested his hand on her cheek, “you should drink something.”  Without waiting for Charlotte to respond, he grabbed the cup of tea and wrapped her hands around it.  “This’ll warm you.”

Charlotte watched the billows of steam make whorls in the air between them, and thought of what ingredients her sister might’ve added to make the drink a bit more festive.  A bit more fun.

“Is there anything I can get for you?  Anything I can do—name it and it’s done.”

He stared up at her with eager gray eyes and ran his hands in soothing motions along her legs—an action meant to generate heat, Charlotte realized, as she had not stopped shivering from the moment she’d arrived.

He went for the wafers next, lifting one from the pile and offering it to Charlotte.  “Eat this,” he said.  “Panic preys on an empty stomach.”

Charlotte turned the cookie over in her palm, a trail of crumbs dusting her skin.  “Do you have any family?”

“I had parents, once.  But it’s literal ages since I’ve seen them—I imagine they’ve long since passed.  Why do you ask?”

She didn’t remember the steps that’d brought her to his room.  One minute she was trailing after Ursula like a second shadow, and the next she was the ghost of a lost girl—every pretense dropped, every glamour forgotten—crying outside his door, wishing, hoping, praying that by some sporadic, erratic, illogical twist of fate her sister would be the one waiting on the other side.

She’d ask Charlotte if she’d had another nightmare and Charlotte would shake her head as she dried all traces of tear from her cheek.   _“Nightmares are for children,”_  Charlotte would insist for the hundredth night in a row.  And for the hundredth night in a row, her sister would step back to let Charlotte pass, a smirk tugging her lips.   _“If you kick me in your sleep, I’m sending you back.”_

Noah had stood, bleary-eyed before her, his hair a sleep-ravaged mess.   _“Help you?”_   He’d said, taking in Charlotte’s long dark hair, green eyes, pale, unpierced skin.  When all she’d managed in response was a sob, he’d narrowed his already squinting eyes and stood a bit straighter.   _“Charlotte?  Is that you?  What’s wrong?”_

When she’d finally gotten the words out, they’d been terrible and tremulous and they’d finished off what little composure she’d had left.   _“I think I killed someone.”_

“Just curious.”  She shrugged, taking a tentative bite of the wafer—lemon flavored.  “Do you have any friends?  Anyone to talk to?  Share your darkest secrets?”

Noah’s smile was uncharacteristically timid.  “You’re my friend.”

Despite herself, despite everything in her that knew she didn’t deserve any measure of happiness after what she’d done, Charlotte smiled.  “You know what I mean.”

“I had a few in my former life.”  Noah leaned forward and Charlotte took the opportunity to breathe him in as he kissed her cheek.  He smelled subtly of sunsets and spring mornings and evergreen trees—of  _outside—_ and it had her feeling a bit lightheaded.  “But none as lovely as you.”

“Mm,” Charlotte hummed.  Before he could move away again, she rested her forehead against his.  Even though she hadn’t tasted a drop, she felt the tea start to take effect.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to persuade me into your bed.”

“Farthest thought from my mind, princess,” Noah said, voice low as he leaned in again, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers when the last word registered.

Charlotte sat bolt upright, as though a bucket of ice had landed in her lap.  “What did you call me?”

“What?”  Noah sat back, seeming unsure if he should laugh.  “As I understand it, when two people are in a relationship, they often have certain endearments for one another.”

“Why  _that_  endearment for  _me_?”

“Why not?”

She sat in silent consideration of whether it’d been an honest mistake, or if there was intent behind his choice of pet name.  He’d never called her by anything but her given name before that night—then again, it’d been a night of many firsts.

In effort to recapture the moment, Noah cradled the side of her face.  “We can try another if you’d like.  Darling, dear, my lady, my love.”

Softening under his touch, she said, “You can call me Charlotte and I can call you Noah and we can not be one of those couples who make everyone around us uncomfortable.”

Noah laughed and kissed her.  “As you wish.”  But when he pulled away, he wore a strange expression.  One Charlotte couldn’t quite name, for it was several expressions at once.  Yearning, sympathetic, conflicted and afraid.

He guided the teacup to her lips and Charlotte obliged him with a sip.  She felt immediately faint, her limbs weightless, as warmth spread throughout the whole of her form.

“Whatever happens,” he said, sounding far away.  “We’ll figure a way out of this.  Together.”

Charlotte closed her eyes as she gave herself willingly over to fatigue.  She heard a quiet clatter, like the sound of porcelain breaking, as she melted into Noah’s waiting arms.  A single word played over and over in her mind as she drifted into peaceful oblivion—a mantra.  A lullaby.  A promise of better things to come.  And the assurance that she wasn’t alone.

“Together.”

 

—

 

She blinked against the golden light beaming down on her from the window and tried to recall the events of last night.  They came crashing back with upsetting clarity and Charlotte felt across the bed for something—someone—to anchor her.  But all that met her searching grasp were empty sheets.

She went to call out for him when a familiar sound stopped her.  It wasn’t loud or invasive, but instantly recognizable.  Charlotte had not only heard it before; she’d heard it recently.  She didn’t dare to hope that she’d ever escape its ominous, pulsing rhythm.

“You—” Charlotte sat up with a jolt at another woman’s voice in Noah’s room.  She gasped at the sight of the Director standing just beyond where the bed ended and the stone floor began.  “—are not where you should be.”

She was flanked on either side by Davies and Greenleaf and a handful of guards whose names Charlotte couldn’t remember, if she’d ever known them.  And to the left of Davies, standing with shoulders back, chin held high, gaze locked on the near distance behind Charlotte's head was Noah.

“I woke up and she was here,” he said to the Director, who watched Charlotte pull the bedsheets higher on her chest.  She felt suddenly naked, exposed, despite still being clothed in the sweats Noah had lent her.  “I don’t know what she hoped to gain by coming here.  Helping herself into my bed.”

“You did right to report her,” said the Director, not taking her eyes from Charlotte.  “You do understand that seducing one of your instructors is forbidden?”

Charlotte looked to Noah and to the guards beside him and back again, dumbfounded.  Humiliated.  Ashamed.  Of what, she didn’t know—just them being there, seeing her in this state was enough to make her cheeks flame, her skin flush with embarrassment.  Prickle with fear.

Did the Director say Noah had  _reported_  her?  That couldn’t be right.

Charlotte swallowed thickly, the urgency of the moment drowning out a nagging voice in the back of her mind—a voice that, once acknowledged, would shatter the perfect illusion she was clinging so tightly to.  One where she was cherished and safe and supported.

“I hear you’ve been quite the busy recruit,” the Director continued.  “Found no satisfaction in your training?  No security in the services provided you by our esteemed council?  Judged your gift of magic to be lacking?”

“N-No, ma’am,” Charlotte squeaked, no louder, no more forceful than a mouse.

“Then I must say I am at a loss.  Boggles the mind, does it not?  Why someone of your standing—penniless, parentless, devoid of prospects or amiable reputation—would be so eager to leave us.”

Shrinking back at the thinly veiled insult, Charlotte frowned.  Despite their sting, the Director’s words were no less true, and Charlotte saw no point in lying anymore.  “I…miss my family.”

The Director arched one impeccable brow but didn’t say anything.  Charlotte’s gaze sought Noah’s, but he wouldn’t so much as glance in her direction.

“Family.  Yes, well, that does seem a common affliction among mortals.”  The Director sighed.  “Alas, who am I to deny someone as disconsolate as yourself her heart’s deepest desire?  Wish-fulfillment _is_ my life’s calling, after all.”

Charlotte blinked, certain she hadn’t heard correctly.

“Your gratitude overwhelms,” the Director said—an aim at sarcasm, Charlotte could only assume, but every word from her lips was like a curse.  Dripping with disdain.

“You’re…letting me go?”

“Don’t sound so amazed.  Do you think me a monster?”

Charlotte didn’t answer, but got the distinct impression that, in this instance, she should have.   _No, no, no!  Of course not!  You?  A monster?  Saint, more like—angel, savior.  My only hope._

“It was only in answer to a wish  _you_  made, un-coaxed, un-coerced, that you were invited here.  You’re not a prisoner, not a slave.  Did you think you could not simply ask to leave and that we, your guardians, would consent?”

That sound once again stole Charlotte’s voice.  It pulsed and pounded along every shift in her emotions.  Instinct told her this was a trap.  Hope warned her not to be so cynical.   _All the world is not out to get you._

But instinct hadn’t failed her as often or as absolutely as hope had done.

So Charlotte asked, perhaps to her own detriment, “ _Where_  are you letting me go?”

The Director grinned a predator’s grin as she pulled her hand from behind her back to reveal a red, glowing heart, speckled with bits of black, beating of its own accord.  In confirmation—as if confirmation was needed—the Director gave the heart a gentle squeeze.  Not enough to hurt but enough for a ripple of connection to pass through Charlotte’s chest.

“There’s no need to be afraid.”

Tears streamed down Charlotte’s face as the Director advanced.  She looked to Noah, whose gaze drifted slowly, apologetically toward her—why was he letting them do this?  Why had he lied?

_“Whatever happens, know that I love you.”_

A wave of nausea swept over Charlotte as a distant clatter echoed in her memory.  Drooping eyelids, a listless grip.  A crash of porcelain against stone.

She wasn’t strong enough to fight the battle that was about to descend upon her mind.  She was weak and she wanted to see them—it was  _all_  she’d wanted since the moment they’d been ripped away from her in answer to an ill-fated wish.

Already she heard the soft echo of rainfall, the rumble of rolling thunder.  She heard her sister’s laugh, and she knew what would come next.  Knew the room would disappear, her view of it replaced with visions of her former life.  Knew, without question, that the awed look she’d so envied would be her own as the Director’s eyes sparkled with unmasked delight.

“You’re going home.”


	17. (16)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So this chapter picks up a little after Emma met Alistair--going back in time a bit to catch Emma's timeline up with the others :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“So what was it that first drew you to my old pal Jones?”

They’d been sitting there for half an hour while the morning rush slowed to a crawl, the exceptionally late among those waiting in line seeming to debate whether or not that extra shot of caffeine was worth obliterating their attendance records with every glance at their phones.  And for half an hour, Emma resisted the urge to draw the weapon at her hip.

“Of all the happy endings in all the lands, you chose a man—isn’t that a tad anti-feminist of you?”  Emma tightened her grip around the to-go cup in her hand, even as the heat grew uncomfortable against her skin.  “Not a particularly impressive man, at that.  Rather mediocre, if I’m honest—and I say that as his dearest friend.”

Emma doubted that.  This guy had done nothing but pay Killian left-handed compliments from the moment he’d welcomed himself into Killian’s apartment, helped himself to Emma’s breakfast, and introduced himself as her new guide.  If he wasn’t insulting Killian’s taste, he was questioning Emma’s.  _Are you sure about that one, Darling?  Are you sure that one’s sure about you?  Men are a fickle lot—but look who I’m telling._

“Don’t think it’s escaped my attention that this is the selfsame café you took Jones to on his first day as your…” Alistair made air quotes with the forefinger of each hand as he said, “ _guide_.”

Emma bristled at the implication that anything untoward had happened in the early days of her relationship with Killian.

“This isn’t the only place you two went that day, is it?  Pray tell, what _did_ you lovebirds get up to on that beach?  So far from prying eyes…” Alistair waggled his eyebrows.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t, Darling—now, don’t think for a second that batting your lashes’ll get you preferential treatment with me.  I’ve been around a lot longer than Jones, and I know all the tricks you mortals try to pull.”

Maybe Emma didn’t need guidance.  Maybe she needed to punch someone in the face.

“Now, I take it Jones walked you through the whole introductory spiel, so I won’t bore you with the finer points of contractual obligation.  What say we skip ahead to the most pressing aspects of our working partnership, hm?  You, Emma Swan—or, as I’ve taken to call you: Case File Two-A-Dash-Five-Point-Six.”  His eyes brightened like he expected her to laugh.  Smile.  Soften somewhat at his clever wit.  Emma did not oblige.  “Right.”  Alistair cleared his throat, pressed his palms flat atop the table’s surface, and leaned forward.  “You, Miss Swan, will be my greatest accomplishment.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“With your cooperation, I shall achieve something the late great Killian Jones himself couldn’t pull off—”

“Killian isn’t—”

“ _I_ am going to get _you_ to believe in magic.”

Emma stared across the table, unblinking.  As far as grand declarations went, it was a tad anticlimactic, especially when taking into account the fact that Emma wouldn’t have been sitting there if she didn’t already believe in magic.

So she wasn’t one hundred percent sold on the notion that it was at fault for everything that’d gone weird since she’d made her wish, but progress was progress, right?

“Really, truly believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt…” Alistair prattled on, oblivious of, or at the very least not outwardly bothered by, Emma tuning him out.

She watched customers inch closer to the register as new ones entered the shop so that even as the line moved, it didn’t get any shorter.  Emma was beginning to feel much the same was happening with her current conversation.

“When I’ve done my job, magic will be so real to you, you’ll be awakened as to the gift it was always meant to be and not the curse this world’s perceptions have morphed it into, and you’ll wonder why you’ve wasted so much time being…well, you.  And _that_ is when the real fun’ll begin—where are you going?”

“I don’t have time for this.  I’m late for work.”

Emma pushed back her chair, coffee in hand, overcome by a sudden sense of déjà vu as she walked to the exit.  But when she stepped outside, it wasn’t onto a busy sidewalk.  The ground sank under her weight and her senses were assaulted by a breeze that smelled distinctly of saltwater.  The ocean was restless that morning; it roared and churned in challenge to a darkening sky above.

“Seriously?”

“What’s the matter, Miss Swan?”  Alistair stepped to her side and looked out at the waves with smug satisfaction.  “Don’t fancy a heart-to-heart?  Quiet stroll along the shore?  Keep my hands to myself—guide’s honor.”  He ran his index finger in an x-like motion over his chest then held his hand up, palm flat and facing Emma.

“I believe in magic—do I need to clap my hands to prove it to you?”

“That’s fairies, Darling.  And no one is at death’s doorstep just yet.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but I’m not in a bonding mood.  I have—”

“Work to do.  I’m aware.”  He cast his gaze skyward like he was resisting an exhausted eye-roll.  “Do you honestly think the city will fall apart, you take a few hours off?”

“What will it take to get rid of you?”

“I’m glad you asked.”  Alistair took a step toward her and Emma had the feeling she was about to regret every decision she’d made in her life that’d led directly to this moment.  “Are you familiar with a town called Storybrooke?”

_Storybrooke?  Really?_

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Quaint coastal municipality in Maine.  Wonderful place to raise children, if you don’t mind reliving the same day for all eternity.”  Alistair’s smile appeared almost sad as he said, “It was besieged, you see, by a darkness so devastating there is but one soul who can defeat it.”  He arched a single brow as he inclined his head in Emma’s direction.

Emma frowned, not saying anything.  Somehow responding to this nonsense felt the same as condoning it.

“Can you imagine a worse fate than forgetting every person who ever mattered to you?  Being forced to assume a new identity without any memory of your true self?”

Emma felt her features itching to arrange themselves into an expression of subtle yet unmistakable incredulity.  Something that said, _I’m not judging, but you might be insane_.

“You and I are going to take a trip there.  But a few vital steps before we set out—for starters, you’ll need to be in absolute control of your powers if we’re to take on a curse of this magnitude, as I’ve a feeling we will not be alone in seeking a breach in its borders.”

“Take on a—in control of my _what_?”

“Your…” Alistair narrowed his eyes, studied her face.  “You don’t know, do you?  If anything, I would’ve thought Jones would tell you.  I mean, something this important…” he stepped back, hand running contemplative circles across his chin.  “This does put us behind schedule, but nothing we can’t compensate for with the right discipline, I suppose—”

Emma held up a hand, growing anxious with every sentence Alistair uttered, despite their increasing resemblance to gibberish.  She was starting to feel as though she might be sick.  It was one thing when Killian said these things.  They were easily dismissed in the beginning, mildly endearing as time went on, now something they most often opted to ignore—a hindrance to the happiness they feared was all too temporary.  Emma could only speak for herself, of course.

“What the hell are you talking about?  I don’t have…” she looked over each shoulder, double-checking they were alone, before lowering her voice to a whisper, “… _powers_.”

The look Alistair gave her toed a thin line between surprise and pity.  “I beg to differ, Darling.  I’ve been in this business a long time—I know how to recognize a kindred spirit when I see one.”

Emma said, “You’re mistaken,” even as something stirred in the back of her mind.  _Turning like the key to a door she didn’t want to unlock_.  She felt more and more unwell as memories came screeching to the forefront of her thoughts.  A flash of light in a hospital parking lot, a broken television set…

Alistair grinned as though he knew exactly what was happening.  And maybe he did.  Maybe where Killian had joked about possessing such an ability, his predecessor had mastered the art of entering minds not his own.

“Has Jones ever mentioned who it is he worked for?”

Emma swallowed thickly, blaming the breeze for her throat’s sudden dryness.  “He mentioned employers, never anyone by name.”

“They call themselves the council.”  Alistair scoffed.  “A more pretentious lot you’d be hard-pressed to find.  Took it upon themselves some centuries ago to govern the way wishes are granted.”

Emma shifted her weight from one foot to the other, not knowing if it was the tales that Alistair told or the man himself that made her most uncomfortable.  Or if it was the things he claimed to know about her.  One word ran on repeat, drowning out all other sounds, stifling even the ocean’s restless roar— _powers_.

_You must be in complete control…_

Alistair flashed her an unamused grin that was eerily similar to one she often saw from Killian, and she wondered which of her guides had picked it up from the other.

“They consider themselves to be magic connoisseurs and prefer a certain uniqueness when scouting new talent.  My _specialty_ , shall we call it, is a heightened awareness of those who are like me.  The council requires a mixture of magic and mechanics to accomplish what I am able to ascertain with a single glance, a single touch.”  Emma, on instinct, backed away.  “And you, Miss Swan—by the gods, I’ve not sensed such natural ability in nigh on a century.  And you’ve no idea, have you?  How special you are.”

Alistair’s eyes were wide as saucers and Emma puzzled at the lack of drool seeping from his open mouth.  If his next words were, “Yer a wizard, Emma,” she was out of there.

“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?  You are what is known, in magical terms, as a Product of True Love.  Your parents had it, passed it on to you, and now that you've—”

“How do you know my parents shared True Love?  How do you even know who they are?”

“Don’t tell me Jones has kept that tidbit to himself as well?  Can’t think of a soul alive who wouldn’t jump at the chance to be heir of Snow White and Prince Charming, beloved as they are.  Now, whether or not this is the reason you were born with magic is up for debate—”

“I’m sorry.”  Emma tried not to laugh, knowing what an unhinged, hysterical sound it would’ve been.  “Do you hear yourself right now?  Snow White and Prince Charming?  You do know they’re fictional…”

“I can assure you they are no such thing.  What they _are_ is in dire need of our assistance, ergo time, in no great shock to anyone, is not our closest ally at present.  So if we could perhaps bypass any and all bewilderment—has a tendency to cause delays, in my experience.”

Emma tried to breathe and found it an increasingly impossible task.

Wasn’t it enough to accept that she’d made a wish and that Killian had shown up to grant it?  That he’d been employed by some ominous _council_ that apparently collected magical beings like bobble head dolls?  Wasn’t it enough that these things seemed normal to her now?  All just a part of her story.  Of hers and Killian’s together.

She looked out at the waves, restless, unsatisfied, and she felt a connection to them.  A sympathy for their eternal search.

Killian had said that her parents were trapped.  That there was something keeping them hidden from every method she’d used to find them.  _A dark curse_.  But he’d never mentioned knowing who they were.  Emma had told him to drop the subject, and he had.

She didn’t want what Alistair was now saying to be true.  Didn’t want to face the fallout if it was.

There were some things she could accept:  Killian was a guide and now he wasn’t.  He was born to a world she couldn’t imagine, but this was the world where he belonged.  With her.

She was an orphan.  Whatever the cause, this was the truth.

There were some things she couldn’t:  Her parents loved her.  It wasn’t their choice to give her up.  They’d wanted her to have her best chance.

It was her destiny to save them.

She turned to Alistair and said, “Take me home.”

He went to argue but stopped himself.  His shoulders sagged with the weight of his sigh and in the time it took Emma to blink, she was standing outside the coffee shop, to-go cup in hand, and Alistair was nowhere to be seen.

 

—

 

It’d taken two weeks, but Emma finally came up with the perfect descriptor for her new guide.  Summed up in a single phrase, the man was a pain in the ass.

He sat at the head of the table, cramming every last bit of scrambled egg into his mouth.  “By all means, take your time, Darling,” he said with a wave of his hand as a piece of the meal Killian had intended for her fell from his fork onto the floor.  “Gods know I’ve got it to spare.”

Emma ignored the disdainful tone his sarcasm had developed over the past few mornings as she zipped up her boots and donned her red leather jacket.  Somehow his words weighed less heavily on her heart when she wore it.

Alistair turned his arm so that his sleeve pulled back from his wrist, looked at his watch, and muttered something obscene.  “I take that back.  I actually _do_ have somewhere I need to be.”  He patted the pockets of his long coat and cast a final glance at his empty plate with a purse of his lips before he met Emma at the door.  “Any guide worth his salt would caution that these offers have a tendency—”

“To expire, yeah, you said that yesterday.  And the day before.  And the day before that.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m predictable?”

“I was gonna say repetitive.”

Alistair lingered in the entryway.  “You know, a less secure man might get the impression you don’t like him.”

Emma let herself out of Killian’s apartment and waited for her guide to follow.  “Shame you’re not that man,” she said under her breath.

Alistair harrumphed as he stomped into the hallway after her, his coattails swaying with even the subtlest move.  “I may have half a millennium on you, but I hear just as well now as when I was a mortal half your age.”

“You’d think in all that time you would’ve learned to take a hint.”

“Well, hearing and listening are two different monsters, aren’t they?  And besides, I know how to read between the lines.”

Emma stalked down the hallway toward the elevator and hit the down arrow.  “I don’t know what you’re hearing that I’m not saying, but you can take your limited time offer to someone else.  I stopped believing in superheroes when I was nine.”

And none of them had shown up to rescue her.

Alistair looked her over, clicked his tongue.  “Stubborn one, aren’t you?  Nothing I haven’t endured before, fortunately for us all.”  He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth like he was chewing over an idea, the details of which brightened every feature on his face despite the almost complete lack of functional lighting in that hallway.  “Suit yourself, Miss Swan.  But you might consider being a tad nicer to me, considering all I’ve done for you.”

“What have you ever _done_ for me besides habitually steal my breakfast?”

“One day soon—”

“Yeah, yeah.  Doom and gloom.  I gotta go.”  She stepped into the elevator and felt all the tension leave her body once the doors closed.

For two weeks, this had been their routine.  They’d bicker back and forth like people who’d been in each other’s acquaintance too long and at the end of it, he’d leave her with some ambiguous warning about how this could be the last day she had to sort herself out.  Whatever waited on the other end of what was starting to sound more and more like a threat, Emma didn’t have the patience or inclination to entertain.  She’d had about enough magic for one lifetime.  If not for the fact that it’d brought Killian into her life, she would’ve regretted ever wishing on that cupcake.  But seeing as how just thinking his name lifted her spirits, that was one decision she couldn’t fathom ever wanting to undo.

“Actually—” Alistair picked up their conversation just as the doors parted on the lobby floor.  “—what I was _going_ to say was, one day I’m going to win you over and you’ll feel sorry for taking that tone with such a dear friend.”

Emma rolled her eyes as he fell in line beside her.  “Do they have therapists where you’re from?  Cause you might want to consult one about that wishful thinking.”

“Says the woman whose wishful thinking summoned not one but two strapping young men to her aid.”

“Young?  Is that relative to the Big Bang?”

Upon their approach of the double doors that led out to a world already alive with the bustle of morning commuters, Emma caught a glimpse of Alistair’s frown reflected in the glass.  “Physically speaking, Miss Swan, I am not that much older than you.”

The sound of unhappy traffic hit her ears as they exited the building, and Emma took it as an omen of the day that awaited her.  “Realistically speaking, I’m late for work and you’re a little overqualified to be my assistant, so…”

“If you don’t want me around, just say it.  Don’t beat around the bush on account of something trivial like my feelings.”

Emma gave Alistair a light smile and a pat on the arm, “I don’t want you around,” and left him standing on the sidewalk outside her building.

Not a moment later, he called after her, “That wasn’t so hard was it?  And for your information, I _can_ take a hint.  I choose not to.”

 

—

 

It took two more days for him to start showing up at her work.  Another week and he was inviting himself along on stakeouts and pestering her with questions she was pretty sure he already knew the answers to.  _“So we just sit here and wait?  Dedicate our entire day to the slim chance this miscreant is daft enough to show his face in public so soon after evading capture?”_

When _they_ had become _we_ , Emma didn’t know.  But the implication that they were some sort of team when she’d asked him repeatedly to leave her alone made her cringe a little on the inside.

“I’m not sure you grasp the gravity of what’s at stake, Miss Swan,” he said that morning as he followed her from the coffee shop where she’d picked up her usual order to the curb where she’d parked her Bug.  “Or the time crunch your latest and greatest guide is under.”

Emma turned her keys over in her hand, selected the appropriate one, and unlocked the driver’s side door.  “You act like the fate of the universe depends on me going on a road trip with you.”

He shoved her door closed before she’d opened it a full inch.  “It bloody well may.”  Emma was mid scowl when Alistair gripped her by the arms, eyes wide and worried, all traces of his former bravado a distant memory.  “Miss Swan, I’m trying to be tolerant of your particularly off-putting personality, do the gentlemanly thing by you and give you time to make the choice on your own, but time is in short supply.”

Emma freed herself from his grip, suppressing the impulse to demonstrate a few of her favorite self-defense maneuvers, her irritation kicked up a notch at the action having caused her to spill some of her much-needed coffee.  Which happened to be a fraction of a degree shy of scalding.  “ _I_ have an off-putting personality?  All you’ve done since you got here is try to guilt me into going along with some half-baked scheme to save the world.  I’m sorry that you feel inconvenienced by choices that concern _my_ life, but I’m not about to jeopardize everything that matters to me because you’ve decided some random town no one’s ever heard of will be wiped off the map if I don’t.”

Alistair stepped back, resigned to let her leave.  But there was still the spark of something in his eyes that said this argument wasn’t over.  Jaw clenched and hands fisted at his sides, he said, “One day soon you may regret that attitude.”

“So you keep saying.”  Emma took a deep breath.  “Look, some of the worst decisions of my life were made out of fear—that I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t deserve the things I wanted.  You can keep up with the apocalyptic speeches over eggs every morning, but they won’t change me back into the person I was.”

Alistair’s demeanor softened and he spoke with a gentleness she wouldn’t have expected him capable of, “No one is trying to _change_ you, Emma.”

She averted her eyes as a montage of her greatest hits played in her mind.  All of them staring a lonesome, unloved little girl who’d never find a home.  Who’d never find parents who wanted her, friends who wouldn’t leave, a man who wouldn’t break her heart…

“All I ask is that you consider the things I’ve told you,” Alistair said.  “Consider the ripple effect of your decisions—or a refusal to make one, as the case may be.”

“I have.”

Nothing was worse than hitting the reset button on her life.  Than things going back to the way they were before Killian showed up and dared her to hope again, and to believe that maybe she wasn’t that lost little girl anymore.  That maybe she hadn’t been for a long time.

Maybe it was time to let her go.

Emma gave Alistair an exaggerated smile that it might grate on his nerves as much as his well-intentioned warnings grated on hers.  “And in my experience, anyone who complains about how being a gentleman doesn’t get him anywhere isn’t really all that gentlemanly deep down.”

Alistair matched her smile with one of his own, tight-lipped and taut, as he opened the driver’s door for her, waved his arm through the air in an action that said, “After you,” and slammed it shut once she was inside.

 

—

 

Emma passed a pen between fingers as Alistair drummed a mindless rhythm against the dashboard.  They stared out at the same rent-by-hour motel, but where Emma saw a cesspit for the city’s darkest souls to gather, she imagined Alistair saw a plain, uninteresting scene.  Bubblegum walls with mint green trim and nothing to do to pass the hours but watch raindrops run rivers down the windshield.

“Is every occupation in this realm as dull as yours?  I can literally _feel_ the minutes being tacked onto my life.”

Emma sipped her coffee—slightly bitter that morning.  Of course, this could have been Emma projecting her own disappointment onto the drink.  Every time she thought of the pool that’d formed in the gutter outside the coffee shop, she felt the urge to drive her pen through Alistair’s hand.  The impulse only grew when she realized this would also put an end to his fidgeting.  Two birds, one writing implement.  “I don’t remember asking you to come.”

“Still pretending you don’t enjoy my company?”

It was pointless to argue, even if _not_ arguing felt like conceding defeat.  She could sense his eyes on her, that triumphant smirk.

The cabin echoed a series of quiet thuds as he flipped the sun visor up and then down, and up again.  “What a strange yet useful invention,” he said without a hint of irony.  “Mortals are a clever lot when you think about it, but I suppose they’d have to be, wouldn’t they?  No magic to help them along.”

It was Emma’s turn to sigh as she counted down the milliseconds until he deemed her a lost cause and left her alone.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Emma turned so quickly toward him, it was a wonder she didn’t pull a muscle in her neck.  It wouldn’t have been an understatement to say that the idea of someone reading her mind made her want to crawl out of her own skin.  But Alistair wasn’t looking at her.  Emma followed his gaze to the glove compartment, which she hadn’t noticed him opening, and where some months ago she’d stuffed a flyer advertising a creative writing seminar.  On the front of an otherwise blank page, in gothic-style font, was the phrase, _“Said is dead.”_

The flyer crinkled as Alistair returned it to the place it’d been found and began rummaging through the compartments remaining contents.  Not a full minute later, he reclined in his seat and settled in for an interminable wait.

Emma might’ve known she wouldn’t get off that easily—five minutes’ silence was too much to ask.

“It occurs to me that I may have gone about this the wrong way.”

“Does that mean you’re leaving?”

“It _means_ I’ve decided on a new approach.”

Emma groaned internally—though, by the way Alistair flinched, she may not have kept the sound entirely contained.  “Are you going to start living in my apartment now, too?”

“Nothing quite so drastic, Darling,” he said with a tone of disgust equal to her own.  At least they could agree on something.  “It’s become clear these past weeks that you don’t know your own history nearly as well as you think you do.  Or that of our mutual broody acquaintance, for that matter, or I wonder if you would be as eager to find yourself romantically tied to him.”

“And you’re going to what?  Show me the error of my ways?”

“ _I_ am going to tell you a story, Miss Swan.  And at the end of it, if you’re not wholly converted to my—what did you call it?  _Half-baked scheme to save the world_ , you have my word, I shall abandon all endeavors to awaken your innate heroism and leave Boston behind, never to darken your door again.”

“All I have to do is listen to a story?”

Alistair cocked his head to the side and clicked his tongue.  “A single story, yes.  In three segments.”

“So three stories.”

“Three parts of one whole.”

Emma studied him as she thought over this offer.  It sounded too good to be true, which usually meant there was some kind of catch.  But the thought of never having to see Alistair again was all-too enticing—and for the simple price of a few stories?

Seeming to pick up on the precise moment Emma’s mind was made up, Alistair clapped his hands together and said, “Excellent,” his excitement undoubtedly due in some measure to having finally found a distraction from his boredom.  “Now, where best to begin?”  He looked at Emma with an almost childlike smile that had her longing for the sort of interruption only a high-speed chase could provide and said, “Once up on a time…”


	18. (17)

“Once upon a time, a lad of ten set out on a mission that was doomed to fail.”

“Off to a cheery start.”

“All part of the process, Darling—a storyteller’s got to give his characters room to grow.”

Emma reined in her impatience when peering across the front seat at Alistair.  She’d already compiled a mental list of all the things she’d rather be doing than sit through whatever lesson he thought it imperative she learn.

“ _As_ I was saying…”

_The storm that’d driven the crew to port had finally reached the shore and was now herding the town’s flustered citizens inside the nearest standing structure any of them could find, but the boy moved from the dying light of civilization into the forest beyond._

_He’d poured the captain his nightcap—considerably stronger than what Liam or one of the others would’ve prepared—and waited for it to take effect.  Then he was gone.  Vanished like a thief in the night before anyone, his brother included—his brother most especially—was the wiser._

_There was rumor of an inn hidden deep in the woods, miles removed from the upturned noses of police society.  Jones didn’t care how far he had to travel or what sordid history had shaped his route—this was the closest they’d yet come to the place his father had fled._

_Liam didn’t approve of Killian’s determination to find the man he’d so readily accepted as having abandoned them.  He was resigned to his fate as an orphan, Brennan Jones being all but physically dead to him, and his duty to their father’s debt.  As the eldest son, the responsibility to provide fell on him—so he’d informed Killian with rigid shoulders and a proud chin._

_“Fear not, Little Brother,” Liam had said, “our future is well in hand.”_

_Jones hadn’t commented on how odd such sentiments sounded from one so young.  Older than him, to be sure, but by no means a man._

_The earth crunched under his boots, the wind whistled through the trees, and Jones nearly abandoned his endeavor until a less hostile eve as a shadow of cloud crept across the sky.  Summoning his courage, he trudged deeper into the dark._ It will be worth it, _he assured himself_ , when we’re a family again—

“I get that you’re trying to create atmosphere, or whatever,” interrupted Emma, “but you can’t possibly know what Killian was thinking when he was ten.”

“It’s called creative license, Darling,” said Alistair.  He’d sat a bit straighter, pulled his knees a bit higher as his voice took on a low, raspy lilt and each sentence grew more verbose than the last.  “Shall I go on or do you have further commentary to add?”

Emma reclined in her seat with a sigh and stared out the rain-spotted windshield, having the sudden sinking feeling the stories she’d signed on for were of fantasy novel scale.

_He estimated he’d walked a couple miles by the time he spied the inn.  At first glance it was just another shadow—no light shone from its windows, no smoke rose from its chimney.  The shrubbery had not been maintained, nor the ivy whose vines all but overtook the place._

_Jones didn’t let these details deter him.  Channeling the bravery he often saw from his brother, he held his head high and marched forward._

_The door whined on its hinges, opening unto a room that mirrored Jones’ state of mind in the months since his father had vanished.  A thief in the night.  Overturned tables and chairs lay scattered about the floor.  They and the walls and the bar were blanketed by dust so thick Jones knew immediately upon seeing it, upon breathing that stale, uninviting air, that no soul had stepped foot inside the establishment in years._

_He slammed his fist against the doorframe and, almost in answer to the turn his mood had taken, the winds picked up speed, swirling around him with enough force to remove his cloak and carry it away.  If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn they had fingers, that his cloak hadn’t been plucked as much as lifted from his shoulders.  Untied by invisible hands.  He chased it through the thinning trees—the wisp of a swaying branch whipping him on the cheek as he passed—to a clearing, where the cloak dropped to the ground as though weighed by an anchor._

_The moon peeked through fast-moving clouds, but the shifting shadows never touched the patch of earth upon which his cloak now lay.  Jones approached it with caution, mindful of any trap that might catch his steps.  If it hadn’t been the last gift he’d received from his father, he mightn’t have bothered with it.  Indeed, he’d have left it to rot and continued on his way.  As it was, his young heart couldn’t bear the brunt of another loss.  Even one as small as a few yards of tattered cloth._

_The air in that clearing seemed to shimmer or glow or…ripple?  That couldn’t be right.  The dark and the cold and the echo of a dozen night terrors were playing tricks on his perception._

_A shiver ran across his skin as he took his next step.  More than a shiver.  A tingle, or a sting.  A more-than-mild discomfort.  Like the feeling of a nervous stomach, only experienced throughout the whole of his form—arms and legs and chest—_

_He felt his face just to check it was still intact.  The surface was solid under his probing fingers, as was the rest of him.  No indication of having been disembodied._

“Admit it—pretty compelling so far.”  Alistair smiled proudly.

Not wanting to put a damper on his enthusiasm, despite not sharing it, Emma smiled back.  It was probably the storyteller and not the tale itself that had her wishing he’d skip to the end and whatever moral he hoped to impart.  If it were Killian narrating this glimpse into his childhood, Emma imagined she wouldn’t have had to feign interest.

_He’d heard of lands where magic wasn’t a gift as much as it was a curse.  Lands where it ruled the people as opposed to the people ruling it.  He’d never had much taste for magic, as he’d only ever encountered wizards with a mind to turn young boys like him into porridge._

_It was then that he took in his surroundings and noticed that the winds had died down.  No echo of their howl remained, no cover of cloud darkened the night sky.  There was only the cloak at his feet and the wood at his back and the moon above, full and bright and beaming._

_Had he stumbled into a spell by mistake?  Was that the sort of thing someone could leave lying around?  He knew in that moment, as even the chirping of crickets quieted, that he should’ve listened to Liam.  He should’ve stayed on the ship and gone to sleep.  Faced the harsh reality of a life without their father—_

_“Oof!”_

_Before Jones had time to process what’d happened, he was face-down in the dirt. Something had landed on top of him and kept him motionless, frozen with fear.  So it had been a trap, after all—he’d stumbled into a dark wizard’s enchantment and now he was going to be supper—_

_“I’m so sorry.”  Some_ thing _turned out to be some_ one _.  She rolled off of Jones and into the dirt at his side, the alleviation of pressure making him realize he’d been unable to breathe.  “Are you all right?”_

_He sat up and wiped the dust from his shirt—not that it helped much.  He was due for a new one, but the quartermaster had a habit of misplacing orders.  Especially those put in by Jones.  Despite Liam’s insistence that he was paranoid, Killian got the distinct impression that Gibbs had it in for him._

_Jones sat upright and got a proper look at the girl who’d toppled him, and once he did, he felt as though the air had been knocked from his lungs all over again._

_“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”_

_Jones smiled, not sure where his voice had gone, and not quite caring if it never came back.  From somewhere in time, his brother’s sought him out—for the sole purpose of mocking him, it would seem.  “One day, Little Brother,” Liam had said, “you’ll understand what all the fuss is about.”_

“Young love—melts the heart, does it not?”

Emma rolled her eyes.  Not that she didn’t find the idea of Killian’s first crush completely adorable, more that there was a sarcastic edge to Alistair’s tone.

_“I was running and I didn’t see you…” the girl narrowed her eyes, but the action could not hide the way they sparkled under the moonlight—in the dark it was difficult to say for certain, but Jones would’ve sworn they were green, “…are you lost?”_

_Jones looked down at his mismatched clothes, stitched-up and re-patched more times than he could count.  Even with the cloak to cover him, one look was all it would’ve taken anyone to tell that he didn’t have a penny to his name._

_“I suppose I am,” said Jones, gaze locked firmly on his own hands, fidgeting in his lap like he’d been caught sneaking extra rations again._

_“It’s just that I’ve never seen you before.  Does your family live in the village?”_

_“I…haven’t got a family.”_

_“Oh.”  She looked as though she might apologize again.  Instead she reached for the braid draped over her shoulder and twirled its ends—turned silver by the moon—around pristine fingers.  Not a speck of dirt beneath her nails that Jones could detect.  They made his own hands seem as though they hadn’t been thoroughly washed a day in his life._

_“Just a brother.”_

_“Well, that’s something,” she said, sitting straighter.  Right when Jones thought it safe to breathe again, the girl smiled.  “Is that who you were looking for?”_

_“Erm…”_

_“Maybe I can help.”  She got to her feet and held her hand out to him.  “I know this area pretty well.”_

_Accepting her offer felt oddly akin to lying, but Jones couldn’t find it in himself to decline._

“Two of Killian Jones’ greatest impediments—women and the truth.”  Alistair scoffed, but seemed to remember his audience when Emma caught him in a glare.  “Right.  Where was I?”

_They hadn’t taken two steps when he felt it again—that tingle that ran like a thousand spiders across his skin.  The winds raged once more, bending and stretching and reshaping the trees, and the moon’s light was obscured by storm clouds forming ominous patterns overhead._

_Jones turned back to see if his companion had felt it, too, but was distracted by the way her cloak was pulled to extreme angles by the gale.  It parted to reveal a garment Jones would’ve needed to scrounge and save his whole life to afford.  A brooch rested at the collar, its emblem catching his eye—the silhouette of a mighty beast primed for attack, outlined by what appeared to be flowers.  He’d once seen a similar crest on the breastplate of a royal guard._

_Panic widened the girl’s eyes and she rushed to secure her cloak to a proper close.  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”  She shouted over the storm._

_“Your secret’s safe with me, Princess,” Jones responded with a wink._

_The princess flashed him a quick, shy smile and turned away to study the ground, taking measured steps that, while meandering, could ultimately be described as moving in a forward direction._

_“What are you doing?”_

_“Looking for tracks.  Signs of a scuffle—you don’t suppose he was snatched, do you?”_

_Jones was briefly taken aback by the bluntness of her question.  What if he really had been searching for his brother and she’d suggested such a thing?  “No.”_

_They didn’t say much after this.  The princess conducted her examination of the terrain, unfazed, and Jones figured it would lend credibility to his story if he followed suit.  All the while, he racked his memory for any place his father might’ve gone from here.  For all he knew, the elder Jones could’ve been a million miles away.  Had he even looked back?  Spared a second’s hesitation for the well-being of his sons?  Did he miss them at all?_

_A few flickering lights dotted the horizon as the port town came into view.  The elements grew kinder the nearer they got to it._

_“What were you running from?" Said Jones.  "If it’s not impertinent to ask.”_

_The princess was quiet for a minute before she stopped walking, mistrust all but written on her face.  “I had heard rumor of a…” she cleared her throat, lifted her chin to a more confident angle, “…a portal.  In the forest.”_

_Perhaps confident wasn’t right, as she seemed to go out of her way to avoid eye contact after this statement.  But there was something defiant about the way her expression had changed, as though a challenge had been issued—_ Go on, judge me if you must, I’m sure I don’t care a jot what you think.

_“A portal?  Like a doorway to another world?”_

_“I know how it sounds.  But if magic mirrors and sleeping curses are possible, why not portals?”_

_Killian arched his brow, unable to hold back a smirk._

_“You don’t believe in magic?”  The princess frowned.  “You really_ aren’t _from around here.”_

_“It isn’t that I don’t believe in magic.  Just don’t fancy it all that much—more trouble than it’s worth, in my experience.”_

_“Maybe you haven’t experienced the right kind.”  She twirled the ends of her braid through her fingers as she cast her gaze about points in the landscape.  “I’m not saying they’re an everyday occurrence or anything.  This particular portal only appears under a strict set of specific circumstances—only the rarest magic can call it forth.”_

_“And are you in possession of the rarest magic?”_

_“That’s not the point.”  Jones nodded along, taking note of the fact that she didn’t answer his yes-or-no question with a yes or a no.  “The point is…oh, never mind.  I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath trying to convince you—I don’t even know you.”_

_“Killian Jones,” he bowed at the waist the way Liam once had done to the captain—an action that’d nearly seen him permanently relieved of duty.  Not to mention his pulse, “at your service.”_

_The princess fought a smile but didn’t offer her name.  Such was her royal prerogative, Jones supposed.  “Your brother could be miles away by now—how long ago did you lose him?”_

_“I…didn’t,” Jones admitted with a pinch of shame as he stood straight again—if slumped shoulders and downcast gaze could be called straight.  “I was looking for my father, he…He left us some months ago—my brother and me—and I thought if I found him…” Jones ran a hand through his hair and let his words trail off._

_“You could convince him to come home.”_

_“I know how it sounds.”_

_The princess didn’t say anything, but Jones had an inkling as to what she was thinking—it sounded as impossible as a magic portal appearing at random in the middle of the forest._

_“I would do the exact same thing, if I were you.”_

_Jones smiled.  He’d readied himself for a reproach, something comparable to what Liam might’ve said—_ Don’t be naïve, Killian.  Father’s made his choice, and we aren’t a part of it.  Let him go.

_“What about your family?”  He asked the princess._

_“What about them?”_

_“Well, say you’d found your magic portal and gone through it—what then?  Do you know the way back home?  Wouldn’t they notice if you never came back?”_

_The princess turned her attention toward town, where it remained fixed for a few moments, as though seeing it for the first time.  “I guess I never really expected to find it.”_

_“What are the specific circumstances that cause it to form?”_

_“Oh.”  Again she reached for her braid, and this time Jones was struck by what a self-conscious action it was._ Odd for a princess to be so unguarded _, he thought.  Especially in the presence of a common cabin boy like him.  “It’s just a children’s story.  Complete nonsense, probably.”_

_“I like stories.”_

_She hesitated until Jones gave her a nod of encouragement.  Then she began slowly, “There’s a legend that tells of True Love’s Crossing.  It’s a sort of…bridge between worlds, independent of time.  The legend goes that if two soulmates are separated, even by something as insurmountable as different eras or realms, a portal can be opened to allow them to meet face-to-face.  But they each have to cross into the same location at the same time, a place where the boundary between their worlds is weakest.  There are other conditions, of course, such as, ‘under the first full moon of an un-cursed year,’ and something about heartbreak drawing them together, but…”_

_“Do you have a soulmate, then?”_

_Jones would’ve sworn the slightest hint of pink colored her cheeks.  “I’m ten.”_

_“But you were looking…”_

_The princess brushed a few windblown strands of hair behind her ear.  “Shouldn’t you be getting back to…wherever you’re from?  I assume that since your brother isn’t missing, he’ll eventually notice that you are.”_

_“Is that your way of dismissing me, Highness?”_

“Could you pass the ketchup?”

Alistair wasn’t pleased about Emma breaking his concentration, but he obliged, reaching across to the far end of the table and delivering the requested condiment.

She’d been right about the length of Alistair’s tale—where he would argue that Emma’s incessant interruptions were to blame for the narrative running well into the evening hours, Emma wondered if it was really necessary to go into such detail when he could’ve left it at, _“Once upon a time, Killian went looking for his father and found a princess instead.  They had a conversation about soulmates, developed a severe case of puppy love, and went on their merry ways.  The end.”_

Around the fifth or sixth time her stomach growled loud enough to drown out the rain, Emma had chosen to close the case on this particular quarry for the day, and she and Alistair had left the motel parking lot in search of sustenance.

“So,” Emma dipped her next fry into the red dollop she’d made on her plate, “am I supposed to know who this girl is?”

“Blonde hair, green eyes, princess—could be anyone.”  Alistair rolled his eyes as he bit into his burger, unperturbed by the furrow in Emma’s brow.  “We did have the talk about Snow White and Prince Charming, did we not?”

Emma’s next bite went down like molasses.  She suddenly felt like Alistair, despite droning on for hours, had skipped about a thousand steps in the story.

He set his meal aside and leaned back against the brightly colored cushion of their booth.  “As you may or may not have gleaned, there is a version of you who met Jones before he showed up in your apartment as your guide.”

“How is that possible?”

“I have a theory.”

Emma waited, simultaneously more confused and more terrified than she’d been in recent memory.

“Somehow your history was altered where his was not—somehow something changed and you, Miss Swan, are not presently on the path your life was intended to take.”

“What path is that?”

“The possibilities are endless, really.”  Alistair shrugged and went back to his food.

“Thanks.  That’s real helpful.”

“When you’ve been around as long as I have, you’ll discover that the universe rarely supplies an answer where it can raise another question.”

“Seems you and the universe have a lot in common.”

Emma might have been on board with the whole concept of alternate realities in the not-so-distant past, but that’s all it was—a concept.  An idealized imagining of better days, wherein everything hinged upon a single word.  _If_ there was another version of her out there, maybe that Emma didn’t have to fight so hard to be happy.  Alistair’s theory argued that the _if_ was not only possible, but probable.  It insisted that another version of Emma not only existed, she’d been a princess in some enchanted forest who believed in magic portals that could unite a person with their True Love.  It was ridiculous.

She stared across the table at her guide, watched him stuff his face with a burger that’d been half the size of his head when it'd been set before him, and decided to switch topics before she got unbearably anxious.  “Did Killian’s father really abandon him and Liam in the middle of the night?”

“While the lads were fast asleep—father of the year, that one.”

Emma’s heart sank.  She hated that her backstory paralleled Killian’s in this one respect.  Though, she had few details about the way her own parents had abandoned her—all the newspaper clipping said was that she’d been found on the side of a highway in Maine, a few hours old.

“Is there a reason you chose this moment in Killian’s life?  I don’t see how it’s supposed to convince me to help you.”

“Maybe you’d find out, you let a man finish a thought once in a while.”

Emma sat back with a huff.  “Fine.  Finish your story.  I’m on the edge of my seat.”

_The princess scowled at Jones—_

“You’re right,” said Alistair, “couldn’t possibly be you.”

— _“I’ve wandered farther than I realized and they’re bound to find me gone any minute, now.  It was nice meeting you, Killian.  Well, interesting, anyway.”_

_“You still haven’t told me your name.”  Jones plucked a flower from the base of a nearby tree and offered it to the princess._

_“What would you do with it?”_

_“I would ask to see you again.”_

_She accepted the flower with a smile and held it to her nose, appraising Jones for a moment.  Then, before he could process what’d happened, the princess pressed a kiss to his cheek._

_Jones touched disbelieving fingertips to the skin where her lips had touched.  “Tomorrow, then?”_

_“Emma.”_

_Something inside that cavernous space—the one so reminiscent of the vacant inn Jones had hardly been able to tell if it was real or he’d somehow stumbled into a nightmare—changed.  Shifted.  Glowed suddenly with a fresh spark of life.  As though someone had lit a match, illuminated a corner of his heart he’d thought forever lost to the shadow of his father’s departure._

_It was the answer to a thousand questions he’d never dared ask._

_And somehow, something clicked into place._

_“Emma.”_

_“How can I be assured of your return?”_

_Jones acted without a second thought and removed the chain from around his neck.  “This belonged to my brother.  He gave it to me a few days after my father left.”  Jones held out his hand to the princess—to Emma—who placed hers inside, and Jones left the necklace to rest atop her upturned palm.  “I’ll be wanting it back.”_

_She held it up toward whatever light she could catch between clouds, the moon’s errant rays glinting off the ruby red stone of the ring he’d kept at the end of that chain.  Liam had insisted the ring would bring him luck, and Jones hoped, in this instance more than most, that his brother was right._

“Are you all right, Darling?”  Asked Alistair.  “You’re looking a tad flushed.”

Emma blinked a few times to find herself standing at the driver’s side door of her Bug, and not in some fantastical forest opposite an earnest, love-struck kid.  It would seem her guide was not wholly unskilled in the art of storytelling.  She could’ve sworn, if only for a moment—

She shook her head. “Fine. I’m fine.”

Alistair studied her as he stepped from the curb onto the street and waited for her to unlock the car.  “Not much longer now, Miss Swan—the first part of our story is nearing its end.”

Emma pulled the keys from her jacket pocket and felt secured by the action, grounded.  Like they and her Bug and that busy street in Boston were anchors to her own sanity.  “Best news I’ve heard all day.”

_“I’ll try not to trample you next time,” said the princess, daring Jones to hope as he’d scarcely allowed himself in months when she fastened the chain around her neck._

_The ring came to rest just shy of that royal crest and it prompted Jones to repeat his earlier question, “Why were you running?  You aren’t in any trouble, are you?  The queen—she isn’t the evil sort, is she?”_

_“My mother?”  Her incredulous tone made him feel an idiot for asking.  “She’s the kindest, most generous soul you’d ever meet.”  Emma twirled the stem of the flower Jones had given her and watched its petals blend together in a haze of midnight blue.  “There was an accident.  I almost…hurt…someone.”_

_“But they’re all right…?”_

_Emma wiped a tear from her cheek that Jones hadn’t seen fall._

_“I ran away once,” he said_. _“Made it two towns over before anyone knew I was missing.”  Emma’s eyes drifted slowly toward his face.  “When my father found me, he was so relieved I was unharmed he’d forgotten all about his anger.”_

_“You don’t understand.  I was born…different.”_

_“My mother had six toes on her right foot—so my brother tells me.”_

_A slight smile broke through Emma’s sadness.  “That’s…not what I meant.”  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, held out one hand with fingers curled inward, nearly making a fist.  When they opened again, an object lay in the center of her palm.  One that bore an uncanny resemblance to the compass Jones’ captain kept in his quarters, next to his maps of all the realms and his star charts and sextant._

_“So you do have magic,” said Jones, awed by this display._

_“Take it,” Emma urged him.  “It’s for you.  To help find your father.”_

_As the compass slipped from her grasp to his, Jones observed it with reverence._ _The needle spun in circles but never stopped, even as he stood still.  “This doesn’t point north.”_

_“It isn’t supposed to.  Unless, of course, north is where the object of your desire lies.”  Emma reclaimed possession of the compass and held it out for Jones to see.  “It will guide you to the thing you want most in the world.”  They watched the needle spin and settle, and once it did, Emma’s shoulder’s sagged._

_If what she’d told him was true, then the object of her desire lay in the direction she’d come._

_Jones rested his hand on her shoulder and said, “Any mistake can be forgiven when someone loves you.”_

_“How can you be sure?”  Emma’s words were lower than a whisper—indeed, some were no more than the movements of her mouth, with a second tear following the same path as the first._

_“Take me for example—most others would find it foolish to set out on a mission to find my father, after what he did.  And it may yet prove to be.  But he’s…family.”_

_Seeming cheered for a moment, perhaps a tad embarrassed, Emma dried her cheek and handed the compass back to Jones, who looked to her for an explanation when the needle refused, once more, to stop._

_“It could simply mean that your heart is undecided,” she said.  “Or it wants many things at once.  Sometimes it confuses the heart with the stomach—best to try again after you’ve eaten.”_

_Jones smiled, even as he felt slighted by an inanimate object, and slipped the compass into his pants pocket.  “Thanks.”_

_The two of them fell into silence, neither rushing to be the first to say farewell, both knowing they couldn’t delay the inevitable much longer._

_“I guess this is where we say goodnight, Princess.”_

_“Until tomorrow, Killian.”_

_His steps were slow to leave as something in that forest pulled at him.  Like his destiny was tied to it.  Tied to her.  He looked back to see her smiling, having turned back to watch him go._

_That night he didn’t sleep for thinking of Emma, but counted down the minutes until he would see her again._

_The next evening, he lay awake, anxiously waiting for his brother to fall asleep—of bloody course Liam would be extra chatty when it was least convenient for Killian.  When the opportune moment arrived, Jones was stealthier than he’d ever been and managed to sneak off the ship without so much as a groaning plank to betray his escape._

_He hastened to the wood where he and Emma had met, fearful he’d be too late.  But she was not there and it lifted his spirits to know he had not missed his chance.  He settled against the base of a redwood tree and waited._

_An hour passed.  And then another.  Still Jones waited._

_He picked a flower and counted its petals.  He watched clouds streak across the sky and disappear on the horizon, and in their absence counted stars.  He tested his memory for the constellations his father had taught him as he plucked each petal in turn.  He consulted the compass Emma had given him, but the needle remained as restless as his wayward heart.  He picked another flower and whispered its name like a prayer.  Forget-me-not._

_He did not realize he’d fallen asleep until someone kicked his boot and he startled awake.  “Emma?”  He sat up straight, scrambling for his senses, and squinted into the morning sun._

_“You’re lucky it was me who found you and not the captain,” said a shadow standing over him.  A shadow with his brother’s voice.  “Come along before he notices you’ve run off.”_

_“I can’t go,” said Jones, “there’s someone I’m supposed to meet.”_

_Liam took stock of their surroundings.  “I don’t see anyone.”_

_It was then that Jones registered the time—the absence of darkness, the harsh angle of the sun.  Night had come and gone and Emma had not shown.  Did something happen?  Had she been delayed?  Had she lied about being in trouble?_

_Jones was clumsy in getting to his feet, sleep still having some hold on his limbs.  “I must go to her—I have to make sure she’s safe—”_

_“Whoa, slow down, Brother.”  Liam caught him by the arms.  “Make sure who is safe?”_

_“Emma.”_

_“I’ve never heard you mention any Emma before.  Are you sure you aren’t still dreaming?”_

_“She’s real.  And I have to see her.”_

_Liam regarded him the same way he’d done every day since they’d awoken to find their father gone.  Doubtful of whatever outlandish idea Killian had gotten it in his head to pursue, but not wanting to come across as overly dismissive._

_“Please, Liam.”_

_“Very well,” said Liam, warily.  Ever at war with his better judgment now that he had another role to fill in Killian’s life.  Any other day, Killian might’ve been driven to guilt over Liam’s expression—too heavily burdened for a boy his age, “lead the way.”_

_Jones followed the same route he’d taken the night before last and came to the edge of the wood._

_“This doesn’t make any sense,” he said to himself as he turned circles in the dirt where his cloak had landed._

_He walked back and forth and around again, waiting for that familiar tingle to assault him, but it never did.  He retraced his steps to the tree where he’d slept, and back again, Liam quietly trailing him all the while—even as his eyes spoke volumes._

_Jones stared out over a cliff’s edge where there should’ve been a clearing, as waves crashed angrily against the rocks below, and began to question for the first time if Liam’s initial assessment had been correct._ Are you sure you aren't still dreaming?

_Had he made the whole thing up?  Imagined an entire person as a means of reconciling the feelings he didn’t know what to do with?  Emotions that’d sprung up in the wake of abandonment?_

_He felt in his pocket for the compass and wondered if it, too, was just another part of the trick he’d played on himself.  Perhaps it looked like the captain’s because it was the captain’s._

_“Come,” said Liam with a pitying hand on Killian’s shoulder, “let’s return to the ship.  The future won’t seem so bleak once we’re back out on the open sea.”_

_Jones looked down at the compass in his hand, at that infernal arrow as it continued its search for something he was becoming convinced didn’t exist for unwanted souls like him, and with a final glance at the crashing waves, he tossed it to shatter on the rocks._

“Let me get this straight,” Emma shed her jacket and dropped it on the kitchen counter as Alistair closed the door behind him, “some alternate fairytale princess version of me as a kid met some alternate Killian—”

“Same Killian.  Alternate you.”

Emma paused for a moment to let that information sink in.  “Right, whatever.  We met in some forest through a portal—”

“True Love’s Crossing.”

Skipping right over that detail, Emma said, “Assuming you’re right, how does that fit into the whole my-parents-are-trapped-by-a-dark-curse-only-I-can-break scenario?”

Alistair plopped down on Emma’s couch like he owned it.  “Did I or did I not specify there would be three parts to this story?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And did I or did I not request that you hold all questions until the end?”  He lifted an invisible speck of dust from his coat’s lapel and cast it into the void.  “Think I’ve been quite accommodating thus far, have I not?”

Emma went to argue when her apartment door opened, and in the time it took her to look over her shoulder and back again, Alistair had disappeared.  Killian entered the kitchen, stopping in his tracks at the sight of Emma standing there alone.

“Were you…talking to someone just now?”

Emma pulled the phone from her back pocket and showed it to him.  “Just tying up a few loose ends on a case.  What’s up?”

Killian looked at her like he didn’t entirely trust she was telling the truth, and the ghost of recent conversations came to haunt her.  _“You aren't a very good liar, you know.”_

“How was your day?”  Emma asked him, if only to steer his focus any direction but where it was going.

“Uneventful.  I was about to head out for a bite—care to join me?”

Emma smiled and kissed Killian on the cheek, just shy of his scar.  “Of course, let me grab my jacket.”

Her gaze followed his to the heap of red leather on the counter.  “This jacket?”

“Actually, I…thought I’d wear the brown.  Be right back.”

Emma did not run to her room, even though that’s what every fiber of her being wanted.  She walked at a casual pace and closed the door quietly behind her before rushing to the shelf where she kept that old cigar box full of mementos and rummaged through its contents like a madwoman.

There weren’t many items inside, as the memories she cherished were few and far between, and the object of her desire was easily found.

It hung from a silver chain and displayed a ruby red stone that glinted in the soft light of her bedside lamp.


	19. (18 pt 1)

_**Wednesday, 2:47 p.m.** _

Emma rubbed her bloodshot eyes and poured herself another cup of coffee. It was all she could do anymore not to fall asleep on her feet. She was starting to feel more zombie than human, and the caffeine was losing its effect with each new serving. Even coffee had its limits, she was sad to learn.

She set down the carafe and took three steps back from the off-brand cabinet where it resided, and stared into the eyes of a beast she didn't think she'd ever be rid of.

It'd grown larger over the years, more daunting. Impossible to defeat. Every so often she'd get these sparks of determination. An attitude that refused to lie down and surrender. Sparks, she was slowly realizing with prolonged exposure to immortal beings, of hope.

The longer she stared, the more her eyes traced the un-connected dots from one photo to the next, the more the pieces blurred together until the wall where they'd been tacked was no better than a haze of newspaper clippings, redacted documents, candid snapshots—the accumulation of a lifetime's research and investigation.

When inspiration left her wanting, Emma checked her phone for the time and found two new texts from Killian. She'd have to pack it in soon if she was going to make it back to Boston before dinner.

With a final glance at the fruits of her labor, Emma grabbed her jacket and headed out, locking the door behind her.

—

_**Thursday, 9:18 a.m.** _

Emma usually rolled her eyes at people who said things like,  _"When I woke up this morning, I had no idea my life was about to change forever."_  Because  _obviously_. But if she would've had a clue as to the downward spiral she'd fall into when dragging herself out of bed, she might've saved herself some pain and gone back to sleep.

When she woke up that morning, it was with firm resolve to avoid Alistair at all costs. She'd needed time to digest his first story before diving headlong into the second. She was promptly and unceremoniously reminded, however, that persons in possession of magic were not easily ignored as he appeared in a cloud of gray smoke in her passenger seat.

_Emma slammed on the brakes and her car came to a screeching halt. "Could you give me some warning the next time you do that?" She held a hand to her chest as her heart hammered against it, checked her rearview mirror in time to see the guy behind her get out of his car and take unhurried strides toward hers._

_"Not a word," she said to Alistair. "I am not your girlfriend or your wife or sister or whatever relationship you're about to tag on to a misogynistic excuse for my driving."_

_Alistair held up his hands as if to say, "Wouldn't dream of it."_

_The driver of the other car tapped authoritatively on Emma's window and she rolled it down, her eyes drifting to the badge clipped to his belt. "Good morning, Detective. How can I help you?"_

_"For starters," he leaned one arm against the Bug's roof and lowered his head to peek inside, "you might want to let your husband take over."_

_Emma bit back a scathing retort and pasted on a bright, law-abiding smile. "Sorry about that. Someone ran into the street and I reacted instinctively."_

_In the split-second it took the detective to peer around the hood of Emma's car, she heard a quiet pop, like someone had snapped their fingers. She looked over at Alistair, who wore an expression too innocent not to be guilty. The detective rushed into the road ahead and knelt down out of sight. When he stood again, he wasn't alone, but guided a dazed man to his feet—corporate lawyer, if Emma had to venture a guess based solely on his designer suit and briefcase that'd come unclasped upon impact, its contents raining down on them like tickertape._

_"Looks like this young lady's quick reflexes saved you some serious injury," Emma heard the detective say. He offered a nod of acknowledgement when they walked past._

_"Was that necessary?" Emma asked Alistair as she drove off._

_"Thought you could use some help."_

_"I was handling the situation just fine on my own."_

_"Didn't look like you were handling it."_

_Emma tightened her grip on the wheel. "I was handling it. And who the hell was that?"_

_"No idea. But I don't envy him the headache he'll have once the fog clears."_

_"So you just pull random people out of their lives now? Throw them in front of cars? What if he was in the middle of a meeting? Do you think no one will find it the least bit suspicious that he suddenly vanished into thin air?"_

_Alistair shook his head and grumbled under his breath about Emma's lack of gratitude making her a perfect match for Killian._

An hour later, they were parked outside a condo in Brookline, where her latest lead had just gone cold. She'd knocked on the door to the last known residence of her person of interest but the young couple who lived there now didn't recognize the man in the photo.

The better part of that hour had been filled with Alistair's voice, which had faded to something resembling white noise, as Emma was too distracted to pay him any attention.

She looked out her driver's side window at the condo’s front door— _glared_  was probably more accurate—narrowing her eyes so intently, she almost had herself convinced that if she concentrated hard enough, her quarry would appear on the stoop as swiftly and incomprehensibly as the lawyer in the road.

She felt around the collar of her shirt for the small lump betraying the ring she'd started wearing again, not taking it out to fiddle with it properly lest Alistair catch a glimpse of it and give her a  _look_  that professed to know her innermost secrets.

"The man in the suit," Emma said, realizing she'd cut Alistair off mid-sentence when the car fell under a silence that felt more like emptiness, the lack of sound more noticeable than its presence.

She glanced across the front seat to see Alistair frowning at her. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

"Would that sort of thing work on—?"

Before she'd finished asking, Alistair heaved a heavy sigh, gaze trained skyward, and snapped his fingers again.

And the man Emma had been tracking for weeks materialized on the sidewalk outside his last known residence, choking on the smoke that'd accompanied him.

It was a few confused seconds before he set eyes on the bright yellow Bug parked across the street, scarcely enough time for Emma to get out of the car and call his name—his response to which, was to run. After instructing Alistair to stay where he was, Emma swore under her breath and took off in pursuit.

—

_**Thursday, 9:36 a.m.** _

She chased him down the street where he’d once lived until he hooked a sharp left and forced his way into a store that hadn’t opened yet, tossing things behind him as he ran—trying to slow her down with strollers and playpens—until he came to a stockroom in the back of the store and Emma had him cornered.

Unperturbed by the windowless, door-less, and otherwise escape-proof wall blocking his way—lined with metal shelves and cardboard boxes from what Emma could tell in the dark—the guy reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and Emma reached for her gun.

"Stop!"

The man obeyed, but not before whatever he'd grabbed fell to the floor and rolled under one of the shelving units. The man stood still, one arm held out in front of him, the other clutching his long, dark cloak. Emma approached with caution, weapon at the ready, and walked a slow semicircle around him.

Every part of his body was frozen, save for his eyes, which moved between the item he'd dropped and Emma's face. His mouth was stuck in what looked to be a painful grimace, open narrowly enough for the errant sound to escape, but nothing coherent enough for Emma to make sense of.

It was then that she noticed how strange his outfit was. Brown leather gloves that met puffy white sleeves, waistcoat and cloak and knee-high boots covered in mud, scabbard fastened around his waist, complete with what she hoped was a fake sword. The guy looked like he'd gotten lost on his way to Comic-Con.

Emma went for the cuffs in her jacket pocket, her fingers closing around the cold metal, when she heard a crash of thunder at her back and turned to see the shelved wall break apart at the seams.

She didn't move. Didn't dare breathe.

Winds gusted from every direction, lightning flashed across a closed-off ceiling, illuminating every crevice in that small space, tremors rumbled beneath the building’s foundations, but none of these things drew Emma’s focus from the scene ahead, so serenely out of place—as though it'd been cut from one world and pasted on to the next.

Trees blanketed hills that crested over a quiet landscape below. The ruins of a castle situated atop a rock formation that'd eroded so much, it was a wonder it hadn't been lost beneath the lake surrounding it—a lake bluer than any Emma had seen with her own eyes, reflecting a blinding sun above.

Something about it felt familiar. Felt…

Emma couldn't put her finger on the right word, but  _familiar_  seemed lacking somehow. Inadequate.

She drew one foot forward, nearer the cusp of everything she’d been terrified to confront—the border of which undulated and swirled and threatened to drag her into its unfathomable vastness—not knowing if she tested its limits or her own.

"Forgot to seal your spell!" Called a voice that couldn't believe its good fortune, the only thing that pulled Emma from the precipice, that woke her, as though from a trance.

She turned to the man who, moments ago, had been frozen in place. The captive of something she couldn't begin to explain. She'd yelled for him to stop, and he'd stopped. Completely. Impossibly.

He shoved past her, smirking over his shoulder. "Rookie mistake!"

Emma lost her footing. She watched from the stockroom floor as the man stepped through the whirling sphere and onto a manmade footpath. As soon as his body cleared the threshold, that idyllic landscape disappeared, along with him. Along with any answers she'd been hoping to find. In its place was the harsh gray hue of a metal shelf, home to dozens of boxes of baby monitors and plush toys, intact and undisturbed. Emma staggered toward it, felt around with unbelieving hands.

Something brushed Emma's shoulder and she jumped, spinning on her heel to face whatever threat had come for her. She dropped her defenses when seeing it was only Alistair.

"Everything all right?"

 _No_ , she wanted to shout over the ringing in her ears. Everything was definitely  _not_  all right.

"How did he—how did you— _how_?"

"This is one of those moments where context makes all the difference, Darling."

Alistair was one of two people in the world Emma knew wouldn't bat an eye if she told him what she'd just witnessed. What her mind was scrambling to process. But how did she begin to explain the last—how long had she been in that store? Ten minutes? An hour? It felt like both a millisecond and a lifetime in passing.

She settled instead for the second-most pressing question on a list she'd titled  _WTF is My Life?_  "You mean to tell me the whole time we've been waiting around for this guy to show up you could've magically made him appear?"

Alistair's response came in the form of a noncommittal shrug.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"You never asked."

"Thanks for sitting by while I wasted my time." Emma bent to retrieve the cuffs she didn't remember dropping. "I told you to wait in the car."

"I think we both knew how that was going to end."

"Did you have something to do with this?" Emma stood straight, advancing on her guide. "Did you help him get away?"

"Perhaps you missed my earlier request for context?" Alistair spoke with enough confusion Emma was inclined to believe him. "Care to enlighten me as to how I've managed to ruin your life this time?"

He sounded as annoyed as Emma felt.

No, she wasn't annoyed. She was mystified. Confounded. Beside herself.

Unmade.

In all honesty, she didn't know what she was.

The only thing that made any sense was that she'd lost her mind. That everything she'd experienced since her last birthday was symptom of an unstable psyche. Alistair and Killian and the whole magical lot. If she closed her eyes long enough, if she willed her desires unto a sympathetic universe, maybe she'd wake up in her apartment, opposite a lighted flame, and it'd be as though none of it had ever happened.

Even as she entertained this thought, she ached with the implications of it. With the loss she would undoubtedly feel. Was it possible to miss someone you had no memory of?

_"There's someone you miss whom you've never met."_

"I'm going back to the office— _don't_  follow me."

By the time she'd retraced her steps to where her car was parked, outside a townhouse inhabited by a couple in their third year of marriage who were so blissfully ignorant of the things that lurked beyond the edges of their awareness, Emma was overwhelmed. By what just happened. By what she'd seen. By guilt. How many times was she going to wish Killian away in the deep, discontented parts of herself before her wish came true?

Most of all, by what it meant that a man had just opened a door to another world.

As with so many things in her life, denial had an expiration that Emma could no longer ignore.

She sat in the driver's seat a few minutes, attempting to catch her breath, gather her thoughts, before she reached for her phone.

_**What're you doing?** _

Killian was quick to respond.  _ **Reading. How's work?**_

 _ **Ugh. Don't ask.**_  When this seemed to be the end of their conversation, Emma texted anything that might keep it going.  _ **This city's gone insane.**_

_**Wanna grab lunch?** _

—

_**Thursday, 11:52 a.m.** _

Killian met her at a café close to their building. He ordered the club sandwich and Emma got the soup of the day. They ate in relative silence but Emma's mind was far from quiet.

She'd been relieved to see him when he'd arrived, had hugged him as though they'd been apart for months, not hours. She couldn't deny how profoundly his mere proximity calmed her. At first.

She couldn't keep herself from jumping at sudden sounds—a tub of dishes hitting the table next to theirs, a motorcycle starting up outside the window of their booth. She couldn't keep her eyes from darting toward the back door, the neon sign that read EXIT and its crisp green letters shining like harbingers of doom. Couldn't keep her thoughts from wandering back to that stockroom, or from wondering if, at any moment, that café would be ripped open, torn apart, its foundations traded for those of a time ravaged castle atop a lake—

"Swan?"

She flinched as something brushed her hand, only to look down and see Killian's wrapped around hers.

"Are you all right? You disappeared for a minute, there."

"I what?"

She was about to ask how long she'd been gone when the furrow in Killian's brow brought her back to reality. "Oh, I…" she sipped at a spoonful of soup and hoped he didn't notice the way her hand trembled when setting the utensil down again, "…it's been an eventful morning."

Killian's thumb ran soothing circles across her skin, "Anything you want to talk about?"

For the second time that day, Emma was racked with guilt. Killian's earnest expression almost had her spilling the beans about his replacement.  _To hell with Alistair's scare tactics_. She couldn't keep lying to Killian. Each new one felt like the brick in a wall she didn't want to rebuild.

Killian was her person. Emma missed his confident assurances that everything was going to work out in the end. She needed them, that day more than most.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "I'm okay."

He lingered, studying her in a manner that was uniquely Killian. "I'm here, Emma. When you're ready to unburden yourself."

"Ditto." Emma smiled, but the one Killian gave her lacked the warmth of his words.

He sat back in his seat, returned to his sandwich, and began remarking on what a quaint establishment the café was, that they should make an effort to lunch there more often.

And Emma felt his ring like a weight against her chest, branding her a liar.

—

_**Thursday, 6:30 p.m.** _

Emma looked out her window, at the moon casting Boston in a cold, ethereal glow.  _Full and bright and beaming._  And as she held it in her sights, she wondered why it was that people wished on stars.

The ring she'd found two nights ago rested heavy on her heart. A red-stoned paradox that wouldn't let her sleep. It belonged to an Emma that wasn't her, and yet for as far back as she could remember, it'd haunted her like a phantom from the life she should've lived.

She had a grand total of two things that'd come from her parents. So she'd always believed. The blanket with her name on it that she'd been wrapped in when she was found. And the ring that'd been tucked inside it like a clue to her identity she'd never been able to crack.

She'd worn it on a chain so it would always be with her.

When she was forced to play by herself because the other kids thought she was odd, she pretended it was the prized jewel in her pirate's chest, reclaimed from the archenemy who'd stolen it from her.

She'd put it in her pocket when she got mad at her parents for giving her up and having it close to her heart was too painful. She'd return it to her neck when they felt too far away and turning her thoughts from them felt the same as pushing them away forever.

When she'd given up on ever finding them, she'd put the ring away for good. Buried at the bottom of a box of memories she didn't know what to do with. Kept nearby but out of sight.

But if what Alistair said was true…

Emma reached for the wineglass she'd set on the windowsill and took a drink.

That was a pretty sizeable  _if_.

What did she know about Alistair anyway? What could she really say about him except that he was surly, abrasive, possibly insane…

Common sense demanded that she run. Sever all ties. Hide out in a bunker somewhere his magic couldn't breach.

She set her wineglass down, stared out at a city that'd been the closest to home as she'd ever come. The answer to a question that probably didn't cause most people any amount of anxiety.

When asked where she was from, Emma had never felt comfortable saying Maine. Because she wasn't from Maine. Not really. It was simply the place her story had started. She wasn't from Portland or Tallahassee any more than she was from Phoenix or Minnesota. Or any of the dozen places she'd been dropped off and forgotten, another checkmark on a social worker's to-do list.

Boston was where she'd made a genuine attempt at putting down roots. It was where she'd found a sense of independence that didn't feel like a lie she told herself to keep from coming undone. It was where she'd met Killian. Where her life had changed for the better.

And for the weirder, if she was honest.

It was strange, this feeling of attachment to something that wouldn't notice if she vanished one day, never to return. Opened a portal in a wall and walked right through.

Emma took up her glass again, emptying its contents and begging the wine to wash away all the unanswerable questions, and grabbed her phone.

It rang twice before a plume of gray smoke obstructed her view of the city. She watched Alistair's reflection swing its arms through the air to clear it away, coughing all the while.

"Tad too much dragon's breath in that batch." Emma turned to face him and he flashed her a grin before bowing. "You rang, Your Highness?"

In another attitude, Emma might've responded with a scowl. As things stood, she was too tired even for that. "I want to tell Killian."

Alistair sighed, his good humor fading from his features like the last wisps of smoke from her living room.

This wasn't the first time Emma had broached the subject. Wasn't the first time Alistair had turned her down. He always had an excuse as to why it wasn't wise to tell Killian, wasn't safe, and Emma was getting ready to go behind his back and do exactly what he'd warned her not to. For one thing, she'd known Killian longer, trusted him completely, and  _not_  telling him about Alistair felt too much like betrayal for her to be at all comfortable with the way things were now.

For another, she wanted—she  _needed—_ someone to be the voice of reason. To talk her out of listening to any more of the nonsense Alistair spouted.

 _Soon_ , she kept telling herself just to get through the next meeting, the next day. Soon Killian would know everything, and everything would be okay.

"I thought we'd been through this," said Alistair.

"We have."

Emma hadn't told him what she'd seen that morning, or why she'd been so rattled. She thought about telling him now, but decided against it. Why should she be so forthcoming when he wasn't willing to return the favor? She could be just as cryptic as he could, if that was the way he wanted to play this.

He wanted to keep secrets from Killian, maybe Emma would keep a few of her own from  _him_.

"Well, if that's the only reason you called…”

Alistair disappeared in a cloud of smoke without waiting for a reply.

Once he was gone, Emma grabbed her keys and headed out.

—

_**Friday, 8:13 a.m.** _

_Flames licked at her skin; smoke choked all breathable air from her lungs. If Emma didn't get out of there fast, she wouldn't make it out alive. But she couldn't leave. Not yet. Not when someone was trapped—someone important. Their cry rose above the inferno until it was the only sound Emma could hear._

_All she could think was,_ "I'm sorry." _Over and again, until all she knew was her own guilt and that cry._

"I'm so sorry."—

Emma stared at the ceiling, waited for her vision to clear as she tried to recall what'd startled her awake. Then she heard it again—that aggressive, repetitive noise disrupting her life.

Whoever decided to bang on her door at—she searched the blankets for her phone—8:15 in the morning had better have a damned good excuse for waking her up before noon on her day off.

 _It's not like I barely got home two hours ago_ , she grumbled as she climbed bitterly out of bed.

She was too exhausted to blink his frame into focus, or to ask him what the hell he wanted. She opened the door and glared at him over the threshold, issuing an unspoken challenge— _say something about my hair and I will not hesitate to punch you in the throat._

Alistair smiled but didn't comment on what must've looked like a bird had built its nest on top of her head. He held up both hands, a peace offering in each.

"I come equipped with coffee and Dan—"

Emma didn't wait for the end of his sentence to snag the to-go cup, retreat back inside her apartment, and plop down on her couch to await the inevitable.

"And a good morning to you, Miss Swan." Alistair closed the door behind him and joined her. "I gather you know why I've come."

Emma sipped her coffee. Warm and rich, it tempted her toward forgiveness as few things could. "Let's get this over with."

"That's the spirit!" Alistair removed the Danish from its paper bag, but before he could bite into it, Emma snatched it from his hand.

"I'm listening," she said around a mouthful of pastry and cream cheese as he gaped at her.

He mumbled something to himself and adopted a more comfortable, if contemptuous, position on the couch. "Journey back with me, if you will, to the year 2001. Our setting: The Land Without Magic. Our heroine: a scrappy young street urchin with a heart of gold—"

Emma didn't have time to ask if this next story was about her, or to take offense at being referred to as a  _street urchin_ , because her phone lit up on the cushion between them. She reached for it and excused herself to another room, and when she returned, told Alistair that she'd been called in to work.

"Looks like storytime'll have to wait."

"Don't sound  _too_  broken up about that."

—

_**Sunday, 5:23 p.m.** _

Emma kicked the door shut behind her as the clerk's voice rang in her ears. Falling like a hammer on the final nail in the coffin of her optimism.

She was greeted by an empty room, littered with a month's worth of debris—crumpled food wrappers, discarded clothes—despite her only having slept there two nights. And that wall. Both echoing with the ghosts of a thousand dead ends.

She'd been down this road before and knew it by name. She could feel herself falling prey to its lures all over again.  _You're so close_ , it encouraged her. _It won't be long now._

Emma knew better than to believe the same old leads she'd followed a dozen times would yield new information—what was that quote about repeating the same actions and expecting a different outcome? But she needed—she  _demanded—_ an explanation. A real one. Not some hokum about Dark Curses and parallel realities.

Some of the things Alistair said, and Killian before him, had been palatable upon first listen—Emma was self-aware enough to admit she'd found something immensely romantic in the idea of there being alternate versions of the people she'd loved. Alternate versions of herself. But it was one thing to imagine such fantastical notions being possible, somehow, someplace…

It was another thing entirely—

Emma sat at the edge of the bed and massaged her temples.

How many times was she going to repeat the same justifications to herself before they finally sunk in? Before they crushed the quiet stirrings in her heart like bugs on the windshield of rational thought?

She needed real world proof. Concrete evidence. Cold, hard, tangible facts. Scientifically sound reasons as to why she was the way she was. Where she'd come from. Who her parents were. How she'd come to be in possession of a ring Killian gave to a girl with her name three hundred years before she was born.

So she'd gone back to where it all began. Rented a room and retraced her steps.

Highway, lobster house, foster home. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But the only thing she'd learned in the past few days, what she didn't need an extended stay in the backwoods of Maine to tell her, was that no one within a fifty mile radius of where she sat had ever heard of a town called Storybrooke.

The clerk at the courthouse had been more than mildly miffed at Emma asking if she could please check again. Emma had choked down her own annoyance enough times to recognize the action in another person. She could imagine all the things the clerk would've liked to say to her instead of an accommodating,  _"Of course. Wait here just a moment."_

Emma took a breath to steady her nerves, knowing it was time to check-in with her guide, lest he come looking for her. She worked through several drafts of a text before hitting SEND, settling on a version of the truth detailed enough to be convincing, flippant enough not to draw suspicion as to why he hadn't heard from her in two days.

She'd told Killian she was away on a case. The driving back and forth between Boston and Maine twice a day, every day was taking a toll. She needed to be immersed in the things she was investigating and still be able to get some semblance of rest without worrying that those closest to her would learn what she was up to.

Just a little time was all she needed to make sense of the giant question mark that was her existence. But when she looked at that wall, all she saw were holes. Loose ends. Abandoned plot points. She was beginning to feel like a fictional character whose author had lost interest.

So much potential in the beginning. So many paths to choose.

The longer she stared, the less clear the connections became between the photos and the maps and the out-of-date newspapers, files and court documents she'd all but memorized by now. She didn't know why she'd thought displaying them this way would make the pieces fit better. Like she'd have some cop show revelation—her eyes would go wide and the music would swell and everything would make perfect, unsettling sense.

Not a minute after her text to Alistair, the room's landline rang and Emma answered without pausing to question who might've discovered where she was. "Hello?"

"What are you wearing?" Asked an accented voice she'd been hoping to avoid a bit longer.

"Excuse me?"

"It's a simple question, Miss Swan: Clothed or not clothed?"

"Clothed.  _Why_?"

The room filled with smoke, precipitated by a  _poof_ ing sound she'd come to associate with Alistair's preferred method of travel.

"I've been told," he said in a tight voice as he held back a cough, "that popping in on clients in a state of undress is, and I quote, ' _Bad form._ ' Ergo, I opted to call ahead."

Emma hung up the landline and shot to her feet. "What are you doing here?"

"This little impromptu excursion into uncharted wilderness wouldn't have anything to do with avoiding a certain guide-slash-storyteller-extraordinaire, now would it?"

"First of all, get over yourself. Second, I don't consider tracking a bail jumper across state lines a vacation."

Alistair surveyed the motel room, his eyes trailing every surface save the wall at his back, as Emma attempted to keep her own locked firmly on his face, and clapped his hands together, rubbing them rapidly back and forth as if to generate heat. "So, what's on the menu for tonight—bloody famished, I daresay."

"You're not  _staying_  with me."

"First of all," Alistair turned toward the minibar and perused its contents, and Emma cut her gaze between his bent-over-form and the files now directly above his head, "get over yourself. And second, doesn't look like you have any pressing plans for the immediate future."

"I had  _planned_  to get some sleep."

"Sleep is for the dead—or however the phrase goes." He rummaged through the shelves of a poor man's beer fridge and Emma wondered if there was any conceivable chance he wouldn't notice her minor redecoration, what was looking more like a murder board with each file she tacked to the wall. If she really did have magic, she could will the evidence away with a flick of her wrist.

Then it struck her. The futility of her own self-consciousness.

So what if he saw what she'd been working on? For all anyone could tell, it was just another case. What difference did it make to her guide if she'd decided to step away from her routine to gain fresh perspective? Who was he to her that his opinion mattered? No one. A daily irritation that'd begun to chafe.

Emma crossed her arms as she tried and failed to quell her discomfort at Alistair catching a glimpse into the unsolvable pieces of her past.

_"When a person makes a wish, it allows the other side a glimpse into their soul…"_

Emma's arms fell to her sides.

If Killian had gotten some kind of insight into who she'd been before Boston, it was probably naïve to hope that Alistair hadn't.

He stood straight again and faced Emma, holding out a sample-sized plastic bag, and asked, "Macadamia nut?" as he popped one into his mouth.

Emma only looked at him and then at the wall behind him, inviting his gaze to follow hers, and admitted, "The man I've been tracking didn't skip bail."

Alistair turned around and froze mid-chew, his attention trailing the pages from left to right.

She walked past him, to a newspaper clipping at the far left corner—the beginning of her makeshift timeline. Its edges were frayed from so many readings, and the page was yellowed with age. She took it down and handed it to Alistair. Watched him read over the headline:

**7 YEAR OLD BOY FINDS BABY ON SIDE OF ROAD**

Though she had a feeling the fact that she'd been found on the side of a highway in Maine wasn't news to him.

"His name is August Booth. He's the boy in that article."

—

_**Sunday, 6:44 p.m.** _

They ate at the foot of the bed, each claiming a corner for their own, the hum of the wall heater the only soundtrack to their meal. Every once in a while, Emma would catch Alistair steal a glance at the wall.

She kept waiting for him to say something. For the inevitable  _why_?— _Why all the cloak and dagger? Why not simply say you needed time to yourself?_  Kept waiting for him to tell her what she already knew, even if she was loath to accept it: She was on a fool's errand. Retracing steps she'd taken a thousand times to no avail.

But he'd been uncharacteristically quiet since he'd set eyes on the reason she hadn't slept properly since finding Killian's ring in her cigar box of keepsakes. After the first story he'd shared with her.

Emma took a bite of the chow mein he'd supplied without asking her what she was in the mood to eat. She wondered if he knew, the way Killian seemed to always know, that she'd been craving Chinese all day.

If she was this affected by one story, and if Alistair had started her off with the least earth-shattering among the three, how was she expected to remain unscathed until the final revelation? What else didn't she know about her own story? Were there other versions of her that'd met Killian? Did Killian have any memory of any of it? Would he ever forgive her for waiting so long to tell him about Alistair? By the sounds of things, the two of them weren't exactly friends.

Were they enemies?

Alistair moved the fried rice around its carton and Emma seized the opportunity to ask a question that'd been in the back of her mind since Friday morning, tainting what few moments of rest she might've otherwise had. "Is the next story about Neal?"

Alistair grunted, not looking up from his food. "Where would you get an idea like that?"

"2001? Street urchin?"

"Are you implying that meeting your child's deadbeat father was the only interesting thing to happen the whole of that year?"

"Neal isn't—"

"Answer me this," he said, shifting his body to face her, making eye contact for the first time in an hour, "did Mr. Cassidy ever come looking for you after you took the fall for him?"

"No, but—"

"And has he made any attempt to contact you in the decade since?"

"He gave me a car whe—"

"Well, bully for him—I stand corrected, Miss Swan. Boyfriend of the bloody century, that one."

Emma didn't respond, and it seemed that Alistair was finished making his point, as he went back to his rice. Why he couldn't eat it somewhere other than her motel room if all he was going to do was switch back and forth between ignoring her and making her feel like an idiot was beyond her.

She didn't know if it was the centuries of immortality and magic that'd made him this way or if he'd simply been born devoid of human emotion, but the man was incapable of not being an ass.

"You could've texted me back," said Emma, tossing her own empty carton into the trash, "you didn't have to show up here."

"And you didn't have to lie about what you've been doing in your spare time."

When he glanced again at Emma's wall of leads, every broken piece she wished she could rewrite, wished  _someone_  could, she got up from the bed and crossed to the first file on the far right—an account of August W. Booth's recent credit card activity that'd led her to a derelict motel in Boston, outside of which Emma had made a deal she didn't understand. She removed the thumbtack from its top margin and moved on to the next file when she heard Alistair sigh behind her.

"I apologize, Miss Swan. That was…unkind."

Emma continued with her task as though he hadn't spoken.

"Truth is," said Alistair, "I'm not one to judge."

"Do you have children?" Emma turned around, taken aback by what it meant that his features had softened.

"A daughter." He smiled sadly. "Gwendolyn. I've not seen her since…" He sat up straight, gaze guarded once again, and the moment was gone so suddenly Emma wasn't sure it'd actually occurred. "I came here to check on you, Emma. See how you're faring. Not everything I do is in service to some agenda."

"Only  _most_  things," Emma said, meaning it as a joke, at the same time questioning whether her words held any truth, and remembering how little she knew about the man who called himself her guide. She was pleased to see the corner of Alistair's mouth tick up, albeit briefly. "So that's it? No warnings about time running out and the consequences of my actions catching up with me?"

"I understand the want for answers. The need for closure. Documented proof that you are who you've always believed yourself to be. I was mortal once too, after all."

 _Like a billion years ago_ , Emma refrained from saying aloud.

"I  _understand_ ," he said again, making it a point to look Emma in the eye. And Emma could've sworn she saw something kindred there. At the very least, sincere. "And I hope you find what you're looking for."

Something about his tone of voice made her uncomfortable. It was too familiar. Too like a friend. Too honest to make her anything but uneasy.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"In the meantime, I shall endeavor not to impede your investigations."

Emma didn't have an answer for that. On the one hand, she was grateful he hadn't discouraged her, made her feel ridiculous for clinging to her cynical mortal ways. On the other, she wasn't used to this side of him. Wasn't sure she'd ever seen it before, or if she ever would again.

She stood silently fidgeting for a while, running some court transcript through her fingers, one she'd covertly copied on a hunch a few years back, under the misguided impression it would lead to her birth parents.

She still hadn't told Alistair about what happened in Brookline. With what he would've undoubtedly called a portal, even if Emma wasn't ready to assign that title to it. Accepting that the boy who'd found her on the roadside had opened a portal to another world…

It was the first step, wasn't it? Accepting portals meant accepting magic meant accepting that she was some prophesied savior destined to deliver her parents from a Dark Curse meant accepting they'd cast her into the mortal realm to save her.

Because they loved her.

She took a deep breath.

Accepting that August Booth had walked out of this world and into another, accepting that Emma had actually seen what she thought she saw, that it wasn't some horrible, certifiable trick of the mind, meant accepting—meant  _addressing_ —how badly she'd wanted to follow him. How those quiet hills had called to her. That ruined castle and clear blue lake…

She looked at Alistair and wondered if he could sense her desperation. How badly she ached just to breathe again without fearing she'd fall apart. It was too much—the magic of it all—much too much to handle on her own.

"I want to tell Killian," she said, knowing what answer awaited her. But before Alistair could protest, she cut him off, "I can't keep doing this. I feel like I'm living a double life—I can barely look Killian in the eye when we're alone."

"All relationships have their hurdles, I'm told."

"I don't get what the big deal is. He was a guide for three hundred years and now that he's mortal again, he's forbidden from knowing anything? I can't—" Emma cleared her throat, thrown by a sudden onslaught of emotion, as though this one confession was the floodgate to all the rest. "I can't do this without him." She squared her shoulders and forbade so much as a single tear from falling in front of Alistair. "That was the point of your first story, wasn't it? You wanted to show me how far back our connection goes—which means you plan to bring him on board eventually, right? Why wait? Why not tell him now?"

Alistair opened his mouth then shut it again. Pursed his lips as he stole another glance at Emma's wall. "You're not wrong, Miss Swan. The plan has always been to include Jones—but in this, as in all things, there is a process. I imagine you understand a little something about that, given your chosen profession. The best I can offer you right now is…soon."

"Soon," Emma said, feeling the word soothe her frenzied thoughts. "I can work with soon."

 _Soon_ , though indefinite, was not forever. Soon was hopeful. Soon Killian would know everything—

"Provided," Alistair continued—where  _soon_  had assuaged Emma's impatience,  _provided_  threatened to return her to its hostile depths, "we go about it my way. Jones and I have a rather…complicated history. It's a safe bet he would not be overjoyed to learn I've taken the reins on your case. Given the unorthodox nature of my methods, he might not believe I have your best interests at heart."

"I'm not fully convinced of that, myself," said Emma with a wry smile, which Alistair returned. "What happened?"

He held up one hand, waved his forefinger back and forth. "Our agreement is for one story, recounted in three parts, and my falling out with Jones has no bearing on any of them."

"Falling out? What'd you do?"

Alistair scoffed. "Now, why am I not surprised you'd assume it was  _I_  did something to  _him_? Bloody typical."

"Okay. What did Killian do to you?"

Alistair was quiet as he tossed his half-empty food carton to land on top of Emma's, then trained his gaze intently upon her past, and said, "Something I intend to remedy."


End file.
